Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

John expected to open the door into a hallway, or stairwell. Clearly he’d forgotten very few things follow paths of traditional logic here.

He should’ve expected to end up somewhere as sudden as a gigantic warehouse…although zoo might have been more accurate.

When he followed Sherlock beyond the flat door he was immediately thrown – involuntarily – down what felt very much like a slide, instinct caused John to reach out and try to stop his momentum, which inevitably failed. Barely a few seconds later he exited onto a hard surface in another undignified heap, at least his clothes remained on his body this time.

John groaned as pushed himself off the ground (maybe I should start keeping a tally here), hands scraping the cracked, and porous cement floor; through which John felt trickles of water, as a result when he stood his hands and knees came away wet.

“What the bloody hell was that…” John muttered to himself, a slide? Really? He hoped he hadn’t unintentionally taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up into some obscure corner of Sherlock’s head, far from his goal and wherever Sherlock – the Sherlock he’d been talking with, went.

John supposed he could forgive the man his impatience in this scenario.

That was when John noticed he could hear what sounded like multiple voices speaking in the distance, it reminded him of a much milder version of the cacophony he’d heard before, but this time John not only heard people, the sounds of numerous animals assailed his ears.

Strange.

John’s brow furrowed. That was when he finally inspected his surroundings.

He gasped.

John was standing in the middle of a massive room; the kind of size with no visible end in sight, and ceilings that dwarfed John’s own height hundreds of time over. There was no sign of the…slide, or shoot maybe, that brought him here.

The room appeared industrial, housing dark wooden shelves upon shelves of boxes all in various stages of aging. John was standing the middle of a crossroad of shelf aisles. While most of them were ordered and stacked neatly, John noticed that several were laying strewn about as though they’d been tossed aside in a hurry.

Maybe Sherlock did end up here…

John started moving across the moist floor and turned down the nearest aisle, which seemed to hold the majority of the strewn about boxes.

It was when John inevitably got closer to the boxes (they looked like file boxes with open handles on either side) that he noted with some shock the sounds he was hearing become louder, and he realized they were coming from the boxes themselves.

All of them.

It wasn’t a painful volume like before, so John leant forward and picked up one of the loose pieces of paper that had fallen out of a box.

It was blank except for one word. Deleted.

John blinked. He quickly picked up several more pieces of paper. Deleted. Deleted. Deleted…

Deleted.

John began to have the suspicion that he was in Sherlock’s Mind Palace version of a Computer Recycling Bin.

This is more than bizarre.

“What-oi!”

Something black flew across his vision, ruffling up John’s hair and starling John into dropping the paper. He brushed it away and as it flew above his head and into some unseen direction, John saw it was a raven.

In fact, there was more than one. John watched in growing fascination – and perhaps a touch of wariness – as more ravens began flocking together, separating, and flying together again in a chaotic formation above the high point of the shelves.

It was almost a Hitchcock film. John just hoped those birds wouldn’t try to peck him to death.

John resumed walking, the trail of askew boxes now increasing in size and mess – maybe Sherlock came here looking for evidence of those memories?

John kept his eyes, and ears, peeled for the man. He reached the end of one aisle with still no sign of Sherlock – damn it! –and stopped for a moment debating which way to turn next.

A sudden, loud sound blasted his ears from behind him. And John became, very, very still – hoping dearly what he heard was an out of tune tuba. He turned slowly.

Nope.

It was an Elephant.

A full-sized, adult elephant zooming up the aisle (far faster than any Elephant should be able to), feet pounding, practically on John’s arse already.

Where the shit did that come from!

John didn’t think. He just ran.

He turned a left, then a right, then another left, all the while there was no end to the aisles of boxes, and dozens remained askew and more tumbled over into piles of paper that floated as the booming Elephant feet tossed them into the air.

The word ‘deleted’ was everywhere.

If by some bizarre turn of events John ended up being chased by an Elephant in a warehouse (and with the drastic turns his life and taken in recent times, he wouldn’t negate that happening all together) there would be no way he could out run it, even though he seemed to able to – and wasn’t feeling tired even though he was running harder than he had for a while, but he wasn’t actually running though was he? – in Sherlock’s mind.

John turned another corner as he looked behind him at the still approaching Elephant.

“Why do you have a bloody elephant in your mind palace why?” John mumbled with no small amount of annoyance.

Shit shit shit what do I do now-

John ran into something hard, and soft, and very much not a shelf of boxes.

“Ah, there you are. What took you so long?”

In front of John stood Sherlock, slightly bent over and tossing papers out of various boxes all around him; searching, eyes focused and not looking at all put out by the fact that John bumped into him because he was being chased by an elephant!

John glared at Sherlock and breathed heavily.

“What took me so long?!” John’s voice raised, huffing, he bent over and placed his hands briefly on his knees. “A bloody Elephant was chasing me!”

At that Sherlock paused in his ministrations and looked at John with a curiously blank expression.

“An…Elephant?”

“Yes!” John threw his hands in the air. “It was right-” John turned around. Nothing. He listened for the sound of feet and tuba like wailing. Nothing (in fact, now that John had found Sherlock all of the sounds and voices he heard before, though indistinguishable, were gone – and the crows he saw were nowhere to be seen either). He poked his head around the wide aisle corner. John saw nothing “-behind me.” John finished; feeling a bit confused.

“Mm.”

When John turned back around to Sherlock, he saw the man very much back into his activity of throwing paper around (these pages John saw contained far more words than ‘deleted’, and Sherlock was only giving most of them cursory glances before tossing them aside), clear he’d only be half paying attention to John – or not at all.

John shook off the bizarre last few minutes to focus on the much more important, and urgent matter at hand. (If he stopped to gawk at every weird, bizarre not normal thing he saw, John doubted he’d make any progress)

“I don’t exactly have a map of your…Mind Palace you know.” John gestured around them. “If you could try not to leave me behind like that again I’d really appreciate it.” And hopefully avoid any more wayward Elephants or crows.

John kneeled, mirroring Sherlock’s position, and watched him continue to sort through the many boxes.

“I knew you’d find your way here eventually.” Sherlock commented with a vague wave of his hand, focused on a yellowing piece of paper in his other.

John’s mouth twisted and made to respond but instead he just sighed, deciding to let this go for the moment.

The cold, moist, feeling had started to seep into his grey sweats again, and John was reminded of another question or two he wanted to ask Sherlock.

“Hey, so why did I show up bare arsed in your Mind Palace flat?”

Sherlock’s movements didn’t slow, he dropped the paper he had been examining and all but stuck his entire head in the box at his feet.

“221b.” His voice was muffled, but John heard him loud and clear.

Er…What?

“221b?”

John heard him mumble.

It was almost funny the way Sherlock whipped his head out of the box, hair flailing around his head. He didn’t look at John but instead stood up – more leapt up – and then proceeded to float above the ground to one of the top shelves; but still visible to John.

John unfolded out of his crouch.

Personal levitation wasn’t an uncommon sight, still John wondered if that was something Sherlock could do in real life or if it was mind specific.

It took all of a minute, when Sherlock came back he was holding a larger box and a large book hovered above his shoulder. His landing was completely smooth, not a stumble in sight.

“Two hundred and twenty B Baker Street. It is the flat in central London I rented approximately three months ago, from a former client of mine; Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock continued speaking as though there hadn’t been an interruption. He dropped the box and the box floated to settle itself into his open palms, without even the use of his fingers the pages began flicking below Sherlock’s eyes at an incredible speed. John was exceedingly curious about what the man was looking at, since all John could see were a mishmash of words that didn’t make sense, at least from where John was standing, or constant flashes of the word ‘deleted’. “In answer to your question, I am unaccustomed to nude men presenting themselves in my home, in any capacity, since you obviously weren’t unclothed before connecting to my mind I am…uncertain why you would arrive as such.” His eyes flitted up to John’s briefly before resuming his examination of the book. “It is not of import at any rate.”

Sherlock didn’t sound like he was lying, but John would be surprised if he was telling the entire truth.

John crossed his arms.

“You’re lying, why?” Furthermore, why was John feeling such a strong burning sensation of certainty in chest of the fact?

At this, Sherlock froze. He lifted his head, blinking slowly, and looked off at a point beyond John’s shoulder. His entire body twitched, once, and for a moment Sherlock looked entirely different (hair smoothed back, coat seemed bigger, suit a dark brown), but John barely had the time be confused or concerned before Sherlock twitched back to his previous appearance.

Once again, he resumed flicking through the massive book in his hands. He didn’t seem to have noticed what just happened.

“Her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida, I was able to assist. She gave me a lenient lease on the flat in gratitude.”

John blinked, arms falling to his sides. “Sorry, who?”

Sherlock looked at John. “Mrs. Hudson, John! Do keep up.” He tossed the book over his shoulder and threw the lid off the large box he dropped earlier; once again kneeling on the ground.

John looked at Sherlock carefully, holding onto the back of his neck with his hand. What just happened? Sherlock was acting like he’d skipped over and forgotten everything after that comment he made about 221b.

John had to remember this wasn’t quite a person he was talking to; this was a part of Sherlock’s mind. He had very little basis on which to go on except what his intuition could tell him. And to him, it said that Sherlock just acted like a damaged disc that skipped forward a few seconds.

Did John somehow touch a nerve? But why would asking about why he showed up bloody nude in his flat – 221b – do that? And why, did Sherlock look different for a moment?

John sighed and dropped his hand. Sherlock was once again absorbed in his task. John wanted to press, but at the moment it didn’t seem like the right thing to do. Instead, he took advantage of finding out something new about the man and picked up on Sherlock’s comment.

(But he filed Sherlock’s reaction away as something to look out for in the near future)

“You helped this woman’s husband get out of being executed?”

John crouched down to Sherlock’s level at the same time the man looked up at him with a somewhat devilish grin.

“Oh no, I ensured it.” His focus again went to the box, only this time he was practically digging through it, far too deeply for what a box that size could possible hold.

John frowned. Oh. “Huh.” Ok then. He nodded. Suddenly John found himself wanting to meet this Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock sounded like a Private Detective, but Mycroft had very specifically said the term ‘Consulting Detective’, there must be a difference – even if only to Sherlock. Given what Greg had said, and that Sherlock had mentioned him (albeit only once and in passing), Sherlock obviously spent a lot of time working with the police – which would be unusual for a Private Detective.

“So you’re a Detective?” John’s mouth twitched briefly in a smile at the sight of Sherlock Holmes half buried in a box, clearly not caring at all how it looked.

“Consulting Detective.” Sherlock called out from his rather ridiculous position of all but crawling to a box. “And my brother must’ve grown more talkative in my absence. I apologize to the world most sincerely.” Sherlock abruptly lifted his head out to look at John. “Is he fat?”

“What?” John blinked. What an odd question to ask.

Sherlock looked almost disappointed. “Mm, no then. Pity.” He all but dove back into the box; sounds of rustling paper filled the air. Ah, sibling rivalry.

John bit his lip to keep a bubble of laughter from escaping.

He sighed with a small smile. “You work with the police.”

Sherlock hummed. “But…?”

“Police don’t go to Private Detectives.”

Sherlock sighed, annoyed. “I’m a Consulting Detective, only one in the world, when the police are out of their depth – which is always – they consult me.”

Well, that makes some sense. John supposed. “And you’re no amateur.” Police wouldn’t consult one, and John had seen firsthand Sherlock’s ability – John couldn’t imagine how much of an indomitable force he would be in peak condition.

“Obviously.”

Humble too.

John looked around at the scattered mess surrounding them. He wondered if Sherlock was making any progress doing…whatever it was he was doing.

“What can I do to help with…this?” John gestured to a toppled over box. He reached over and grabbed a bunch of the papers inside it.

One appeared to be a list of…the planets? John was befuddled; before he could read past ‘Jupiter’ a hand yanked at the pages rather forcefully and threw them over his own shoulder.

John gave Sherlock an affronted look, the latter staring at the former.

“I am looking through facts and observations that weren’t – that I didn’t successfully delete, and you-”

Again, that word. “Delete? Can you actually delete things from your-”

Sherlock exhaled, resting back on the heels of his feet. He lifted a hand, dramatically point to his head and the surrounding environment. “My mind is a hard drive; I can’t not observe those details which idiots overlook because they insist on not using their brain. It only makes sense to keep that which is useful, really useful. I delete everything that doesn’t matter. This-” Sherlock gestured with his head to the room he and John were then in. “-is where everything that is useless to me goes. As I mentioned to you before, if there is any residual indication of the repressed memories keeping unconscious, they will most likely be here. Since you obviously need the clarification-” John felt a prickle of irritation at the haughty attitude. “-this is not actually a part of my Mind Palace. It is separate, entirely, the purgatory between my conscious and unconscious mind.”

John rubbed his hand across his face. “All this then, is what you deem useless?”

“Yes.”

John pointed to where Sherlock had thrown the papers he’d yanked away from him, on which he’d seen, a list of the Solar Systems planets.

“So you think the bloody solar system is useless?” John’s face morphed into an expression of disbelief.

Sherlock groaned and ruffled his hands frustratingly through his already disordered, curly hair.

“What does it matter? It doesn’t make any difference to me and the Work.”

“But it’s the solar system! Primary school level knowledge, how can you not know or care-”

“John for heaven’s sake, it is not my work; therefore it does not matter to me! And I do not have the time, or inclination, especially now to explain it to you.”

Sherlock stood up in an angry swirl of coat and strode off towards a shelf of boxes further down the aisle; his image flickered more obviously than it had before, a couple of times he seemed to have disappeared completely before settling.

A raven flew over John’s head, and he swore he heard a wolf howling.

John’s heart was pounding. He didn’t know what to think. That a man, clearly possessed with the desire to know, able to observe stories from the smallest of details, could see something as essential to life as being useless…it baffled John.

And he felt royally stupid for feeling a sense of disappointment and hurt by Sherlock’s words, that implicated nothing mattered to him but his work. Not an uncommon attitude for workaholics around the world, and one John could empathize with to a degree, but when it came to Sherlock Holmes, he took it to a whole other level.

Coniuncti Sumus or not, from what little he saw of the man, how could John expect anything different?

And more importantly, why?

It couldn’t be as straightforward as Sherlock simply being an arrogant, superior, stubborn, man who is spectacularly ignorant while being a Mensa level genius? Those things are obviously part of who he is, and John is as intrigued as he is mystified by him, but there’s more…there must be, otherwise, why would John be here? In the mind of a man whose mind and Magick has been torn apart by pain so severe a part of him would rather slowly, effectively kill himself than remember whatever it was that caused him so much grief?

John couldn’t retract himself now, just because he was thrown off base, yet again, by Sherlock Holmes, and not in a good way.

John took a series of deep, calming breathes; stealing himself for approaching Sherlock (who was then frantically moving from shelf to shelf several dozen feet away from where John was sitting).

He stood up; ignoring the cold wetness that had seeped through his trousers.

John took a step forward.

Ow! Something small, and hard, hit John on the shoulder. The sound of, whatever it was, then landing at John’s feet echoed in the gigantic room.

(in the not so far distance, Sherlock didn’t seem to notice)

Before John could mutter a proper curse or look at what just hit him, something else fell from…somewhere, thankfully not hitting him this time.

John rubbed his shoulder and looked down.

“What the…”

Below him, not inches in front of his feet were two objects; an apple that looked like it had been bitten into, and…a dog collar?

A confused frown on his face, John leaned down and picked up both objects in his hands.

The dog collar was bright red, on it hung a glittering green nametag with even darker, almost blood red, writing; Redbeard.

Redbeard? Is that the dog I’ve been seeing?

The apple soon caught his attention. It was an abnormally shiny red delicious, and what John initially thought was a bite was actually a crude carving; I O U.

John stared with bewilderment at the objects in his hands, wondering if they were important somehow, but not knowing how or why.

No. He knew, as confusing as their appearance was to him, John just knew they were important.

He looked up to find Sherlock was throwing papers out of a box like it had personally offended.

John ran towards him in a fast jog, holding onto the apple and collar tightly, feet pounding loudly – and wetly – on the floor.

This Sherlock heard. John saw as Sherlock abruptly raised his head to face John, eyebrows raised as he watched his fast approach.

“I think I found something.” John said, breathing heavily, once he stopped in front of Sherlock.

“Oh?” Sherlock seemed skeptical.

John wasn’t surprised by this.

Well, they found me more like.

“Yeah, I don’t know what they mean but here.” John held up the collar and the apple. “They both, literally fell on top of me. Not sure what it means, but I figured it probably wasn’t coinci – Sherlock?”

John looked up at Sherlock’s face for the first time since holding up what he found.

He was completely still, didn’t even appear to be breathing, his mouth parted. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, moving side to side at an abnormally fast rate, as he stared at John’s hands. His own - still gloved - were twitching oddly.

John, any residual irritation he had left towards him fell away in that instant, dropped the offending items and rushed forward.

“Sherlock? Are you ok?” John asked, urgent.

It was when he reached out to touch Sherlock that not only did the man finally move, but the entire room started to shake with earthquake like proportions.

“Christ!” John automatically reached out to steady himself on a shelf.

Sherlock had bent forward and was holding onto his head with both hands, miraculously, he wasn’t stumbling even with the room shaking as it was.

Any moment John expected tons of boxes to start falling on their heads. He was just debating running like mad to…somewhere, when suddenly Sherlock straightened to standing, eyes wide and alight, and the very picture of a man having an epiphany.

John hoped it was a way to get out of here.

Sherlock reached downwards with both hands. For what John didn’t know, all that was there was the fl…a trap door?

What the hell? John was sure it wasn’t there before. None-the-less, Sherlock grasped the handle of a large, metal trap door and flipped it open; the large metal square landed away from him with a loud clang.

The shaking increased, and then boxes started to fall.

“Shit!”

John felt the shelf he was leaning against move and quickly pushed himself away.

A gloved hand reached out around John’s flailing hand and pulled.

John, without a thought, obeyed. Without even looking, he knew who that hand belong to. He moved quickly in the direction Sherlock was pulling him, realizing as he did that it was towards the trap door opening.

Just as the shelves on either side of the aisle collapsed, Sherlock and John jumped through the open maw and into darkness.

~

Where they appeared next was, for the first time, achingly familiar to John.

A lab room at St. Barts Hospital. Of course it looked different, every year medicine and technology change, but there was no mistaking the place John spent his interning years in.

John was grateful he didn’t land in a heap on the floor this time – and he still had his clothes.

His heart though was pounding, mind racing, all that just happened making him feel noticeably dizzy. John only had a sparing glance at his new surroundings – not able to notice where Sherlock was – before he stumbled, immediately reaching out to brace himself on a table covered in lab equipment.

John forced himself to breathe deeply, and slowly. It may not have felt like he’d fallen from a great height, and it seemed to John to literally only take an instant of time before he got from that warehouse like room to here through the trap door, but John felt like his entire body had been constricted and blood was just now returning to him, causing uncomfortable tingling sensations everywhere.

John couldn’t hear a thing besides a high-pitched buzzing, which thankfully began to dissipate. His body was tense in response to the remembered shakes of quaking in Sherlock’s mind.

Hoping he wasn’t about to keel over, John forced himself to turn around – needing to see if Sherlock was here with him, and that he was ok.

Idiot, look around you. Of course he isn’t ok.

At the very least John hoped he hadn’t inadvertently made things worse.

John felt a split second of relief when he saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the lab barely a few feet away, but that changed when he noticed something was wrong.

He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, as the man’s face was buried by the sleeves of his coat, gloved hands gripped the hair at both sides of his head so tightly John feared he may just tear it out. Sherlock’s entire body was shaking.

John tried to move closer, but by some unknown force he found himself stuck where he was.

“Sherlock!” John called out loudly.

Sherlock made no sign that he heard John at all.

Shit.

At that moment drawers in various cupboards and tables in the lab began opening of their own accord; paper, files and photographs of various sizes zoomed out of them.

John ducked as dozens of those whooshed over his head. All began whirling around Sherlock’s head, some burst into ash and fell around Sherlock’s feet, and the rest moved in faster and tighter circles around the increasingly distressed Sherlock.

John never hated being helpless as much as he did in that moment.

And then, Sherlock began to speak – or rather screamed, angrily and loud. “No! Not you, not you…”

John watched with a sense of growing horror as Sherlock’s coat disintegrated off his body, and any bare skin John could see began to model itself after what lay in the bed back in the Centre; mottled, grey, deathly pale.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, not sure what that could possibly accomplish – maybe he could distract him from whatever was happening.

It seemed to work this time, or maybe it was coincidence, either way Sherlock stopped screaming and shaking. And all but one of the drawer items, a photo, burst into flames before falling in light shaves of ash.

John watched, mouth parted – breathing heavily, with wide eyes as it moved away from Sherlock. As it did, Sherlock slowly rose his head; his expression scarily blank and unreadable.

For some reason, that worried John more than anything.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to look at John, his expression didn’t change, but John recognized the tense line of shoulders, and overly tight bearing as the sight of a man holding back immense physical pain.

Just then, the single photograph halted its progress and rose above Sherlock and John’s heads. The two of them watched as it enlarged and turned around, enough that John could see what it was.

It was the face of a man; dark hair, eyes cold and unfeeling as the devil, the smile on that face was nothing like the adventurous light of Sherlock’s grin.

John could imagine it was meant to terrify, instead it made him boil with anger. Because, even before words in blaring, burning embers carved themselves into the face of the photograph, John knew in his gut who that man was.

Moriarty.

“James Moriarty. I remember, he left an apple at my flat mere weeks before…I O U. I both intrigued and infuriated him, the feelings were quite mutual. A level of genius that rivaled even my own.”

John whipped his head away – with pleasure – from the photo in surprise, at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, far too eerily calm for John’s comfort.

It made John’s neck tingle in a way that singled danger, and not the good kind. (if there was such a thing)

Sherlock was still staring at the photo, looking no worse or better – there was that at least.

“I was so sure, he had to be stopped, it was over, I knew it was…He was a spider who wove his webs into the darkest corners of society, I made a mistake. I failed.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You tried and did your best. You know you did. And you succeeded in the end. Moriarty’s dead.” It seemed Sherlock had started to remember, at least part of it. Mycroft didn’t tell John all the details, but to John it seemed that their dedication to ridding the world of Moriarty, an especially cruel, relentless criminal, was absolute. John knew better that anyone sometimes all a person can do is their best, and sometimes it isn’t enough.

John tried to move again. He growled in frustration he found himself still stuck.

“No, he won’t. You are not alone in this. Do not give him power over you from beyond the grave.” John insisted, trying to break the spell of bitter defeat that had befallen the man in front of him.

When Sherlock faced John directly, and he saw the darkness creep over his eyes, John felt deeply chilled in a way he had yet to feel since arriving here.

“You, John Watson are a hypocrite. You tell me to not give Moriarty, the very epitome of force of evil, power over me when you, a former soldier and Doctor allow your own demons to plague you every day. You hate what your life has become, useless, without purpose, a life without the danger of adventure to keep you feeling alive, as fake as the smile you put on every day to fool the little brains around you – including your own. I’m not alone? I didn’t fail?” Sherlock stalked towards John, imposing and relentless. John was frozen speechless; he tried to tell himself that this wasn’t normal – he could feel it wasn’t – whatever this was, Sherlock lashing out or something more sinister, it wasn’t the entirety of the man, a man damaged and obviously in pain and trying to hide it. Still, John felt each of those words like a wound – it took all of his strength not to show it. “If I didn’t fail, what do you call what you did?”

Sherlock stopped just out of John’s reach, fierce and all but daring John to respond.

John felt like he’d just been drenched in cold water. His eyes turned fire. He knows. Of course he knows. Did the bastard just wait until he could use it against me like this?

No, no that wasn’t right. John knew it. Even without knowing the man well, John knew this wasn’t truly him, maybe Sherlock could be intentionally cruel – but for the sake of being cruel? John didn’t believe that.

That didn’t mean the words more than stung.

John suspected if he could’ve moved, he would’ve punched Sherlock the second those words and implication left his mouth.

As John continued to glare Sherlock down, unblinking, he was glad he didn’t – because as he stared at the man, he could sense that was exactly was Sherlock was expecting – negative retaliation on John’s part.

Instead, despite the furious beating of his heart, John took a cue from Dr. Thompson and tried to diffuse the situation.

“Even if you do have a point...” John admitted, reluctantly – the result of a little voice in the back of his mind whispering ‘touched a nerve did he?’. Sherlock blinked quickly and leaned away, clearly taken aback by John’s response. “This isn’t about me. What happened to you, Sherlock?” John was proud at how even his voice was, and how he’d managed to not let his anger get the better of him for once. Ironically, he always tended to work better at thinking things through under severe and dangerous situations – for the most part.

John meant what he asked, sincerely. Something backed Sherlock into this corner, and it wasn’t pleasant, and it wasn’t all Moriarty.

They have to be getting close to the blocked off memories now. John didn’t know how, but he felt sure of it.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open slightly, his face falling in such a way that made him seem years younger, and nothing like the hard, angry man he’d been only seconds before.

“I got-” Sherlock shook his head. “He-” His mouth continued to move, but John couldn’t hear a word and he’d never been adept at reading lips. He wasn’t looking at John anymore; instead he continued to mutter silently.

When tried to move this time, he could.

He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and forced him to look at John.

“Sherlock. Talk to me.” John spoke in a tone he used to use with distressed patients. But this man was anything but John’s patient, he was…he was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock looked at John, but again when he spoke John couldn’t hear a thing. John could still hear the oddly accurate sounds of a working lab, so he doubted it was his hearing.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he grasped his throat with both hands.

“Sherlock!”

John reached out and tried to pull Sherlock’s hands away. He couldn’t.

At that point the picture of Moriarty, which had become vaguely forgotten, morphed into something very familiar.

Not the apple, but the red dog collar.

John was still grasping Sherlock’s arms when it flew directly at frozen, wide-eyed Sherlock; hitting his partially exposed chest.

The second it did, bright lights caused John to clench his eyes shut and once again John felt the sensation of being constricted from the inside out.

The drop was hard, as a result John found himself torn away from Sherlock.

He opened his eyes instantly.

The ground beneath him was sandy, rough and bumpy with that felt like miniscule rocks. When John looked around he saw why.

They appeared to be in a desert; a twilight sky illuminated nothing but warm, taupe coloured sand…except for the glaring, hollow canyon barely any distance away from John’s right.

They’d landed on the edge of a canyon. What the – why?

John ogled at the bewildering scenery for barely a moment before he heard a sound. He pushed himself to his feet and saw it was Sherlock, far too close to the ledge for John’s comfort, trying to do the same. John rushed over the rough land surface towards him.

He noticed Sherlock’s shirt had fallen open completely; exposing scars and open wounds scattered across his torso.

Oh hell. John found himself wishing that his Magick capabilities were not only healed but indeed Sorcerer based, he would have no trouble then healing those wounds. In this situation though, it might not have even worked.

John quickly reached the struggling, huffing man, grasped his shoulders and pulled him to standing.

Sherlock still looked awful, but he seemed more aware than he had been – mostly he looked to be in shock, and a bit unsteady on his feet.

“Are you ok?” Stupid question.

Sherlock looked at John, then at the canyon, and back; all the while the emotion in his eyes remained confused, and guarded.

“I am…uncertain...” Sherlock began twitching oddly again, the appearance vaguely similar to a seizure.

“Shit.” John mumbled.

He tried to urge Sherlock to sit back down, not knowing what else to do. But before John could make any movement a single, loud sound echoed from within the canyon.

A dog, barking. It rang in John’s ears painfully.

Sherlock all of the sudden collapsed like dead weight beneath John’s hands. John retained his tight grip, and found himself staring at Sherlock in astonishment when the form he held began to change to that of…a child?

John tried to hold on, but when the dog barking grew louder, John found himself thrown by an invisible force away from the canyon, and Sherlock.

Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

John didn’t know how long it had been. Mycroft told him before going in that time would pass differently. He could’ve been here for days, weeks for all he knew. John didn’t know, or particularly care.

That time however, John did care.

There was no way to tell the passage of time in someone’s head, but John suspected it had to have been hours at least since John saw the canyon.

And Sherlock.

John supposed technically everything surrounding him was Sherlock, but in the past while he had seen nothing or no one he could interact with – no matter how many times he called out to him.

In fact, John found himself in what appeared to be an abandoned wing of a mansion.

All John could conclude was that he was probably back in Sherlock’s Mind Palace.

Some Magick, any kind, would’ve been especially helpful at that moment – anything to speed up the process of finding the man he’d been interacting with and figure out what the next step is. Not just that though, when John saw Sherlock last he didn’t just look to be on death’s door, but he had changed for the first time as something far different than his usual self – a child, a very young Sherlock more specifically. It had to have been. John only saw for a second before he was thrown away, knocked unconscious and invariably woke up achingly on the floor of an empty room that reminded him of a tour of old English mansion houses his Mum took him and Harriet on when they were kids.

Needless to say, though John felt tangled and whiplashed by the whole experience, he was – if possible – even more concerned for Sherlock’s mental and emotional state.

The time alone certainly gave John leave to think about a few things.

Like why, where John was, is this part of Sherlock/Sherlock’s Mind Palace so empty? It was an endless stream of rooms that all looked precisely the same to John, more than once he thought he was going in circles.

Not to mention the lab, the canyon and why the sound of a barking dog caused Sherlock to not only collapse, but transform into a child.

John was sure he would wake from this with a very real, very intense headache. He hadn’t had to deal with this much metaphor and symbolism ever in his life, maybe if he took a psychology course or two in school – he might be a bit well informed.

Or maybe it would’ve just been useless. Nothing John had seen suggested Sherlock conformed to any mental norms; in fact the man would probably be insulted if he did.

It was mad, to realize that John felt this much connection, and trust with someone who was basically a stranger.

In Dr. Thompson’s own words, John had trust issues.

All those thoughts and more whirled through John’s mind, as he once more entered yet another empty room; large floor to ceiling windows on either side appeared frosted over, making it impossible to see beyond, the parquet wood floors were layered in dust, no sign that anything had moved through here for a long time.

It was nothing new. John was on the verge of tearing his own hair out.

And then, as John took a step towards the only other door in the room, one of the windows across from him smashed; John ducked and rolled to avoid getting hit with multiple shards of pointed glass, the dust of the floor stuck to his skin.

John swore when he felt a pinprick of glass pierce the skin of his palm.

“Why are you here? There is nothing you can do. You should leave.”

John jumped up at the sound of a small, quiet voice coming from directly behind him. When he turned around, John saw a little boy, about seven or eight, standing utterly calm in the midst of the broken glass. He was wearing a dark green jumper and corduroy trousers, the curly hair atop his head (though slightly lighter in shade) and unique eye colour told John this was a young, very young, Sherlock.

John also noticed he looked he’d been swimming in his clothes, every inch of him was drenched.

John looked, and debated on what to say. The only part of Sherlock John had personally interacted with so far was the adult, not this child incarnation; telling him to leave.

“Why should I leave?” John absently wiped the small drop of blood from the wound on his hand on the thigh of his grey sweats. He never took his eyes off the boy.

The young Sherlock tilted his head, observing John with confusion.

“Why do you want to stay? There is nothing left here.”

The words were matter of fact, but something in them was sad – resigned. And that somehow seemed worse.

John glanced around the room, and wondered if this part of Sherlock was purposefully keeping him in this loop of empty, dusty rooms to prevent him from going forward.

If that was true, John had to be getting close.

“That’s not true. You are here.” John noted with a gentle smile.

“No, I’m not. He hasn’t been here for a long time.” The never took his unblinking, curious eyes off John.

John’s brows bunched together. The little Sherlock reached out a hand and the dust rose up in almost beautiful swirls to surround it.

“What do you mean?”

“He left me behind. He hasn’t been here. He misses him. He hurts. The bad man, he made him hurt again.”

What is he talking about? Is the bad man Moriarty?

John stepped closer, and kneeled in front of the boy; looking at John with desperately sad eyes.

“Who?”

The child frowned at John. “Him. The man with the apple.” He pointed at his feet.

John looked down and briefly saw the image of the infamous I O U apple imprinted in the dust before being blown away.

“He hurt him. He isn’t supposed to hurt. Why does he?”

John noticed the boy started to cry, silently and solemnly staring at the ground.

John’s heart ached – and once again wished that Moriarty was still alive so he could kill him himself.

He reached out with both hands and grasped the young Sherlock’s shoulders. John had never had much experience with kids, but this wasn’t just any kid, this was Sherlock – and even though John wasn’t sure of the specifics of what he was talking about, John had to do or say, something.

“Are you talking about Sherlock?”

The little boy looked up at John, water dripping down his forehead.

“Yes. Why does he hurt?”

How on earth was John supposed to answer that?

John sighed.

“Because…Because he is human.” What could he say?

The little boy pouted.

“He doesn’t want to be human.”

John’s mouth tightened sadly. Christ.

Technically, Sherlock wasn’t human, he was an Enchanter, albeit it still fell under the human umbrella, but that was neither here nor there.

Ultimately, John had no idea how to respond to that, but he suspected this boy, this young Sherlock, wasn’t looking for that.

“Will you let me help him?”

The little boy backed away, and John’s hands fell. He remained kneeling on the ground.

“Why do you care? You have to stay here, or leave, you want to make him hurt again!” That small voice rose incredibly, causing more windows in the room to break.

Shit!

Luckily, nothing hit John that time.

John forced himself to appear calm as he looked at the angry child.

“I don’t. I promise, if there is any way I can avoid hurting him I’ll do it, but he will die if I don’t find some way to help him. Please, let me?” John didn’t think he was ever going to find a way out of this area without appeasing this part of Sherlock, who was obviously restricting Johns access to the rest of Sherlock’s fractured mind.

And the emotion swirling, and aching, within John wanted to comfort this young Sherlock, even if he couldn’t reassure him without lying. The truth was John didn’t know for sure if he could help Sherlock.

But he was sure as hell going to try.

The little boy seemed somewhat mollified, the angry twist of his mouth faded into something more wondering.

“Why do you care?”

John hesitated. How do I answer that?

Truthfully, all rational and logical reasons aside, the answer to that question was at the moment indefinable to John.

Mostly.

“Because he matters.” To me. At that moment, John couldn’t answer why, he didn’t know how to.

A practical stranger – or perhaps, rather less than that, being inside the man’s mind kind of negates that term – has never mattered so much to John.

The little boy blinked, in a way so uncannily reminiscent of the grown version of Sherlock.

He walked towards John. John watched with an eerie fascination as the little boy reached out, grabbed John’s wounded hand and brought it up to his face.

“You remind him, but…he doesn’t know. You are different. You could…help him.” The young boy muttered, looking at John’s hand.

I remind Sherlock of something?

John frowned, confused not just by the boys vague words but by his actions.

A single tear fell from the boy’s eye and landed on John’s hand. He didn’t flinch.

And suddenly, the child vanished in a puff of dust. And John watched in surprise as the pieces of broken glass flew into the air and molded themselves back together.

A new, very different looking set of doors appeared before him. They looked remarkably similar to a smaller version of the massive doors John saw when he first arrived.

John wasn’t sure whether to take that as good sign or not, but it was progress.

He pushed himself up and off the floor. Right before he reached the doors he noticed the dust had – quite literally – been washed away, leaving a thin layer of water behind.

Huh. Why is there water everywhere?

John looked down by his foot when he felt a faint pressure. It was a picture, floating upside down in the water. With a curious frown, John stooped low and picked it up. When he turned it over the first thing he noticed was how old it was, like one of those portfolios of portraits from the 1800’s.

John recognized Sherlock immediately; his hair was different, smoothed back, the suit he wore looked to be a dark tartan, a watch hung from his lapel. The age of the photograph, and overall appearance of Sherlock brusquely reminded John how old Sherlock actually was – even though he appeared so young to John.

The face, stern, unsmiling like many Victorian era photos, was very much the same. John noticed however that there was something else in the photograph, but it looked almost like it had been erased, even only half of Sherlock was visible.

Strange.

Suddenly the picture turned to ash in his hand. John gasped in surprise. The ash fell through his fingers and into the water below.

John clenched and unclenched his hand, the image of a Victorian Sherlock a stark reality in John’s mind.

He shrugged it off for the time being, and reached out with both hands to push open the doors. Like before, John felt a burning sensation run through his fingers. Only this time, it didn’t hurt; it more reminded John of warming his hands over a low burning fire, a feeling John remembered describing what using his Magick felt like in his teens.

Also like before, it hardly took any pressure before the doors were swinging open.

John stepped forward into a long, wide hall. The doors swung shut with a loud, resounding bang.

The pure, ethereal sounds of a single violin playing seemed to come from all around John.

The piece sounded familiar to John, but he couldn’t quite place it. Regardless, it was beautiful.

More water coated this white, tiled floor. If it weren’t for that, John could’ve said this hallway reminded him of the BMC; walls and arched ceiling a warm, walnut wood, line continuous on either side with doors; each one had an opaque glass window.

The very end of the hall appeared was blurred out, John couldn’t tell where – or if – the hall ended.

John walked forward. The violin music neither rose nor lessened in volume; it remained as steady as the gentle flow of water beneath John’s feet.

Wherever it was a combination of music and atmosphere, either way, John felt a deep sense of sadness pervading this hall.

It didn’t bode well – a ridiculous thing to hope for really, especially in this situation.

When John reached the first door, to his left, he grabbed the handle and turned – hesitating before opening it. John couldn’t decide if he would rather there be a stampede of elephants behind that door, or the source of wherever the melancholy music was coming from…Since John had always dealt with physical pain better than emotional, he opted for the elephant stampede.

So that was of course, what he didn’t get.

John pushed open the door. Sunlight poured into the hall, John automatically lifted his arm up to shield some of the brightness.

John’s eyes grew steadily wider as he took in the scene before him; it was quite literally – a scene, as though John walked in partway through a virtual movie.

The figures within didn’t notice John’s presence, neither were familiar to him.

“I…I’m sorry, I tried, I should’ve been able-”

A young woman with auburn hair was lying on a simple, intricately carved, wooden framed bed. She reached out, gently pressing fingers to lips, in order to stop the frantic, tear-filled words spilling from the young man kneeling on the floor beside her.

There was a strange haziness to what John was seeing and hearing, as though there was a warped piece of glass between John and the young people in front of him.

The door abruptly swung shut, John jumped backward; narrowly avoiding his fingers being crushed with the force of it.

John breathed heavily.

Images of what John saw flashed across his mind; the woman, the young man…he couldn’t clearly see their faces, nor did he recognizes their voices. Was that a memory? Did Sherlock know those people? He must. It seemed like the woman was sick, possibly dying…

John could only guess.

He pondered it as he resumed walking.

John tried opening each door he came across, it wasn’t until he’d passed – and tried – at least six before he finally reached one that opened.

He was only half-surprised to see yet another scene playing out beyond. Although the subject matter was starkly different than the one before, the consistent bangs from inside were unmistakable to John.

An old man, tall and shrivelled, skin near hanging off his decaying bones, stood in front of the target; holding a revolver with surprising steadiness perfectly aligned with the headless, humanoid dummy.

He fired – again, and again.

“You’re missing.”

John knew that voice. Wait a sec…is that, Mycroft? There was definitely no one else in that room other than the mysterious old man, but never-the-less John was quite sure he heard Mycroft’s voice echo from within.

“I’m trying.” The old man seethed.

“And failing.” The voice of Mycroft resounded loudly.

More gun shots went off. Even from a fair distance away, John could see the old man had perfect aim with the human dummy – he shouldn’t be missing.

The old man then screamed in rage, causing the gun to shatter in his hands. Strength grew in his limbs, and as he breathed heavily through his teeth, the old man stretched out both of his arms and remnants of the shattered gun rose in swirls around his hands.

A dual punch to the air in front of him, using both his hands, caused the coiled fragments to zoom forward.

John watched the spectral in front of him with wide-eyed fascination. He saw the fragments hit the dummy with incredible speed, a billow of dust exploded from the impact; temporarily clouding the area. Once it faded, John noticed that all but one area of the dummy was pierced with metal gunpowder residue.

The heart.

“You try, little brother, but you will only ever destroy the bridges and paths to that place…”

Mycroft appeared as a vaguely translucent mirage in front of the old man, collapsed on his knees; holding his elbows in both hands, looking up at Mycroft standing before him; every inch of his face dripping with disdain, the tip of his umbrella pointed towards a concave in his chest, where a heart should be. “…not, the place itself.”

“Holy shit…” John exhaled. Little brother? The old man…that’s Sherlock? Now that John knows that, he could see it in the eyes, even clouded as they were. Maybe this was what Sherlock would look like if Enchanters aged the same way as everyone else.

But why was John seeing him like this?

“You will fail. You must fail.” Mycroft exposed his palm in a bowl shape to the air, in it materialized a bloody, beating heart.

“Why…” The old man, Sherlock, breathed out roughly, obviously in pain. “It was - is a distraction.”

“Idiot boy. The only distraction is the one you create for yourself.” Mycroft threw the heart into the air –

John didn’t see anymore, for that was when – again – the door swung shut in his face. John stumbled backwards, mind reeling with what he saw; complicated, private, emotional. He didn’t know exactly what he just witnessed meant, but John knew one thing for sure – Sherlock would always be infinitely more complicated, with deeper rivets of conflict, than he portrayed himself to be or have.

John was enthralled. And all the more devoted to helping the man heal from what was obviously profound and very real emotional, and mental pain. Not that John was anywhere near an expert on that but, with this, he wanted to try his hardest. And he would try his hardest even if it killed him.

John picked up speed, continuing with a jog down the hallway – trying each door, and each time hoping the next would lead him to a part of Sherlock that he could interact with.

As he moved on, John noticed that the water level had risen slightly, and that the condition of the doors was getting poorer the further he went. The young Sherlock guided John to this place, there had to be something important here. Something John needed to see.

A door several paces down opened at John’s touch.

That time, the only light that billowed out was the glow of a single candle; yet it illuminated the room enough that John could see every corner of the small space.

Even though he was obviously younger, John could see that the young man, curled up on a mattress on the floor, in the centre of the gloomy, decrepit room, was Sherlock.

And he looked wrecked.

[/i]Sherlock shivered, curled in on ball – hiding from the world, or from the wretched painful monotony of it all. A single arm stretched out past the barely adequate prison of his chest, his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing the pallor of his skin and –[/i]

John gasped. Are those…track marks? John had seen his fair share of intravenous drug users when he did trauma surgery, most were there from overdose or some other problem related to their addiction. There could be some other reason for them but, when he saw the condition of the younger Sherlock before him, and the all too familiar pattern of marks stretching from the crease of his elbow and beyond (some must’ve been years old) – John knew.

Sherlock was a drug addict? Is he still? John never would’ve guessed that Sherlock was a junkie, probably cocaine or heroin, considering Sherlock’s age it might’ve been opium.

Was it a coping mechanism for whatever his greatest pain was? Or was it more than that? John wondered how the man justified it to himself.

The scene had continued to play out before John as he grappled with the new found knowledge. When he shook himself of the shock, John saw that Sherlock was no longer alone.

A dog was stretched along the back of the shivering, clammy Sherlock; its head resting gently on his shoulder, eyes seeming…sad.

The dog. The dog. John’s mind reeled.

The red fur delicately reflected the darkening candle light.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock’s voice sounded so very, deeply worn. The dog barked softly. Sherlock brokenly exhaled an icy, bitter laugh. “You should go home.” The last word was uttered with an immeasurable amount such coolness.

The dog barked again, this time much, much louder and sat up. Sherlock reached up and covered his ears. If a dog could look contrite, this dog did. It snorted, and almost seemed to sigh before resuming its position draped over the man at its side.

Sherlock didn’t try to push the dog away.

The door didn’t swing shut this time. John couldn’t say why, but something about seeing this particular vulnerability…John felt like he was intruding even more so. He closed the door on his own accord.

Sherlock perhaps wasn’t the most traditionally endearing of people; John doubted he had many friends. John had been seeing the dog everywhere before entering Sherlock’s mind, heard it once he did, it had to be important.

Mycroft said he didn’t know what it meant.

Seeing what John just saw…he was surer than ever that the man had lied. This creature was obviously important to Sherlock, perhaps the closest companion he had at that point in his life.

John didn’t know. There was something in the way Sherlock addressed the dog though that seemed…off to him, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Never-the-less, John turned away from the closed door and continued his rapid jog down the hall; footsteps sloshing loudly through the water.

All the while, the violin music played on a continuous loop.

At last, he came to the end of the hall. There were two doors, and they both looked impeccably well taken care of; breaking the mould of the decaying doors before them.

John took a chance and opened the door on his right; loud sounds of a busy city echoed. In the centre of it stood Sherlock, surrounded by multiple people, but once again it was a moment playing out before John, except this time it appeared more recent. John was particularly sure of this because he recognized one other person – D.I Greg Lestrade.

The vague haziness that was present in all the other scenes John witnessed wasn’t existent in this one.

“Look! Can’t you see? The callous on the side of his left index finger proves it wasn’t suicide!” Sherlock was gesticulating wildly over the body; eyes wild as he glared at the offending woman standing off to the side, dressed in jeans, white shirt and a suit jacket; arms crossed defensively in front of her chest.

“Why don’t you leave the theorizing to us professionals-”

Sherlock guffawed. “You call yourself a professional? Oh I’m sure there’s a very professional reason you and our beloved, quite married, professional coroner show up for work every Monday exactly fifteen minutes apart-”

“Oi! Donovan! That is quite enough. Go talk with the coroner.” Lestrade, who had been deliberating with a fellow officer, moved to get between Sherlock and Donovan before something worse than insults was thrown around.

“Yes, talk.” Sherlock emphasised his words with very obvious quotations.

She obviously wasn’t pleased, but acquiesced to the orders of her superior, and with a decidedly sour expression she turned around and walked away.

Sherlock looked very pleased.

Lestrade sighed. “Look, try not to alienate everyone will you? Don’t forget, you’re only here because I allow you to be.”

Sherlock snorted. “Please, you need me.” He waved an unconcerned hand and knelt before the body.

Lestrade looked towards the sky, as if praying for patience. “Yes I do, God help me.” He muttered. “Now please, tell me why you don’t believe this is suicide?”

They were standing in the middle of an abandoned parking lot, in a district of London currently in development; trucks and construction vehicles of all kinds continuously passed near them on the street.

“I don’t believe. I know.”

“Of course you do.” Lestrade briefly rested a hand across his forehead. “Just tell me how, I can’t stand here all day - I do have other cases to see to.”

Sherlock hummed and bent with his face close to the dead man’s arm, sniffing along his wrist; nose wrinkled.

“Ah, I see. Shall I just ride with you then? It would save you the trouble of floundering before finally relinquishing your pride and calling me to solve-”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh very well.” He stood back up. “The callous on his left hand, more specifically the first metacarpal, indicates the man was left handed.” At that point Sherlock gestured towards the glaringly obvious gunshot wound on the man’s head. “The gunshot wound was on the right side of his head, if he really was prepared to kill himself it would’ve been far easier and instinctual to his dominant hand, which was definitely not his right. Even without that, there is a subtle deformity to the middle phalanges in both the index and middle finger of his right hand; it would’ve made pulling the trigger of a gun with that hand extremely difficult. Thus, it was murder. Obvious. And if your team had any brain capacity they would’ve figured that out.”

Lestrade rubbed his hands tiredly down his face.

“Alright, ok. What else have you got for me?”

Sherlock grinned widely.

The door didn’t shut, but the memory itself faded away at that point, leaving John to see nothing but darkness.

Huh…so Sherlock really was a brilliant arsehole. Good to know. Even though the man was a bit, ‘not good’ in his personal deliveries about people and their private lives, in his defense the coroner was obviously an idiot. Even before Sherlock said it, John noticed the sharp bend in the phalanges of the dead man’s right hand. As Sherlock said, it would’ve made pulling a gun trigger exceedingly difficult – among other things.

This was clearly Sherlock’s Work, a thing the man himself professed to be his main purpose in life.

And he was amazing at it.

It was a nice change to the melancholy element to what John saw behind the doors of this hall before. John’s lips curled in a subtle smile, he hadn’t yet seen any example of the man fully in his element before…it was a sight John hoped he would get to see again.

John went to shut the door. Right before he did, for the first time, something else appeared before him in the room. John frowned.

It was…him.Wait, what?

Johns face, a faint, foggy mirage shone like a frozen picture in the murky black.

“Who are you?”

It was Sherlock’s voice, distant, but very distinct.

“Why…why are you different?” Like Mycroft initially in the second room, there was no physical sign of Sherlock within, just the echoing tenor of that unmistakable voice. “Who are you? I don’t understand why you’re different.”

Sherlock’s voice was breathlessly confused…torn. “Who are you John Watson?”

And just like that, the brief moment ended. Once again the room was plunged into darkness, and this time, John just let go of the door – which he’d been holding open – and it gently swung shut.

John just stood there for a moment.

That was…what was that? It seemed, even in his fractured state, Sherlock wasn’t the only one of them contemplating the other. But there was a tenor in the way he asked those questions John didn’t know how to process. It was more than curiosity; it sounded almost like…fear.

Why would Sherlock be afraid? Of him? Because of what he was trying to do here? John couldn’t think of any other reason.

If that were the case though, what was the ‘why are you different’ question about?

Different how?

John was definitely discovering more questions than answers here. He sighed, and rested his hands – much like Lestrade’s in the memory – briefly on his face before letting them fall.

Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

John walked the short distance towards the final door and grasped the handle. Swiftly, he opened it – in the process noting it was notably heavier than the others, and then…

Whack! A ball of hard, cold snow hit John full in the face; it began to melt near instantly in contrast to the warmth of his skin.

“Fucking-” John sputtered, quickly wiping the freezing wetness away from his eyes and mouth. “What the hell was that?”

John blinked away the water around his eyes clouding his vision.

He barely registered the thud of the door closing shut behind him.

A street in the height of winter surrounded John. Though he was certain he hadn’t seen this specific area before, there was no doubt in his mind that this was in London.

It was night; undisturbed snow covered the sidewalk, road and stairs leading up to the homes on either side. There were no visible stars, or moon, the only light came from the dozen or so streetlights positioned evenly apart along the street.

This is different.

John turned his head, there was no sign of the door he came through, behind him all he could see was the rest of the street; dimly lit.

In truth, the only abnormal thing was for being a street at London, even at night, it was exceptionally quiet and void of any life.

Given that this wasn’t London, and merely another facet of Sherlock’s mind, perhaps it wasn’t so odd.

Sherlock’s mind…John had an inkling about where he was. Sherlock mentioned he’d recently – before what happened to him – rented a flat.

John looked up, intent on finding a street sign…ah. There it was, right on the corner.

BAKERSTREET W1 .CITY OF WESTMINSTER

So this was the outside of Baker St, which meant 221b had to be nearby.

When John took a step forward he’d expected, naturally, that it would be onto snow, but when it did all he felt was water. Given that all John had been wearing on his feet since this thing started was slippers, he was generally used to his feet being soaked with all the water he’d encountered.

That time felt different however. The water, was warm.

John looked down. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

A few centimeters out from his feet there was untouched snow, however within that circle it had melted around John and was lapping at his ankles much like a lukewarm bath. Strange.

The strange pool of melted snow stayed with him as he walked forward…Very strange.

Not unlike everything else he’d seen and experienced thus far.

John shrugged it off for the time being and moved forward, hoping that coming full circle like this would lead him to Sherlock. He kept a sharp eye peeled.

It was when John passed a café, with a somewhat faded sign that labelled it as ‘Speedys’, that John saw him.

He was standing beneath a short flight of snow covered steps; curly hair and long coat billowing in the gentle winter breeze, the collar of it was turned up; obscuring most of his face, but the visible profile identified that this was, most unmistakably, Sherlock.

John immediately sighed in relief.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock jumped a little, as though abruptly awoken from sleep or a trance of sorts, but when he turned at the sound of John’s voice; there was a small smile on his face, illuminated further by the glow of the streetlight.

It was a welcome sight. The warmth John felt could’ve been from the water surrounding his feet…

“Ah, John, there you are. Apologies if you got lost, my faculties are not exactly in order at the moment.” There was a dark, humorous edge to Sherlock’s words.

That’s an understatement.

“Too right.” John gave him a commiserating smile.

John closed the remaining space, which was small, between him and Sherlock and stood close enough to give him a thorough once over. The last time John saw the man he looked near deaths door and was barely even aware, not to mention he’d collapsed and turned into a child in John’s arms.

John was pleased to note that Sherlock, this part of Sherlock anyhow, seemed somewhat recovered from whatever happened and why. Though John doubted it was that simple, it was good to see he looked…mostly normal again.

It was a bit odd though that unlike John, Sherlock didn’t seem impervious to the snow; it seemed to have built around his feet, not melted.

“Something wrong, Doctor?”

John really, really didn’t like what his mind did to him when Sherlock said ‘Doctor’ like that. Bastard. (John wasn’t sure if that was directed at himself or Sherlock)

John inwardly shook himself when he realized he’d been staring perhaps a bit too long than what might be considered normal, doctor concern. When he looked up at Sherlock the man was watching John curiously, with perhaps a twinkle of amusement.

John tried to look as innocent as possible.

“Nothing new-” That was true at least. “So…” John casually looked around them, he noticed that yes, they were indeed standing in front of a door which was blazoned with the golden numbers ‘221B’. “What the hell happened back there? Are you alright?” John resisted the urge to reach out and nonchalantly pat the man’s shoulder.

Before that point John never thought an apple and a dog collar could trigger a meltdown like the one Sherlock seemed to have. It did cause him to remember Moriarty a bit – but the only sign of the dog (which from having seen the memory, had to have been Sherlock’s) was the bark at the edge of that out of the blue canyon.

And now they were back at 221B Baker St, outside of it anyhow. John wondered if the whole thing happened because those items were symbolic of whatever it was a part of Sherlock was trying to repress. He did say he went to that place because he believed that was where any residue of what his mind tried to fully delete might be, were the apple and the collar the residue? And John just happened to find them?

Well, they found him actually.

Sherlock raised a singular brow.

“Well John, it became apparent to me that there wasn’t any tangible evidence for me to theorize on in that Purgatory, and that I could spend all of whatever time I have left searching that mire. I should’ve realized that if I-” Sherlock hesitated a moment, his eyes flickered briefly to John before vaguely scrutinizing the surrounding, snowy area. “-We are to find genuine signs of what is keeping my mind, and Magick, this frustratingly splintered, I will have to go deep. Deeper than I have ever consciously been before, if all this was truly an act committed on part of my subconscious – it is still me imperfect or not, I doubt I would be truly stupid enough to hide these memories somewhere obvious, let alone leave evidence in plain sight. I’ve been merely waiting here, for you to show yourself.” Sherlock’s brow wrinkled. “Although I am not entirely sure why I did…” His voice trailed off, he looked straight ahead but his eyes were somewhere far away.

Ok, makes sense I suppose – if it is possible for anything to make sense here - but why isn’t he mentioning…John looked at Sherlock and tilted his head.

“What about the lab? And the canyon?” The apple? The dog collar?

John found it odd Sherlock completely bypassed over those experiences; it was almost as though –

Sherlock frowned. “I assumed when we went through the trap door that we would end up in the same area, evidently not. What happened when you followed me through the door?” Sherlock turned to face John fully, observing him with diligence.

- he didn’t remember.

Oh… well, John hadn’t been betting on that happening, perhaps he should’ve though. It just seemed to lend more credence to his theory that the apple and the collar hit a little too close to something. Either that, or they did end up in different places, and the Sherlock John watched remember Moriarty, and become twisted and withered by the edge of that canyon, wasn’t the one he’d been originally interacting with.

But if that were true…Sherlock made it sound like what he just told John was something John should already know, like he just had another ‘aha!’ moment, opened the trap door and boom, landed right on Baker Street. No mention of the quakes, boxes of half-deleted memory falling everywhere, or of the objects John showed Sherlock that seemed to trigger all that.

Christ. Forget headaches, John felt like he was getting a migraine.

So would that just happen again if John said anything? What was he supposed to do, just sit there – metaphorically – and hope Sherlock will stumble into it and not have another mental breakdown that would inevitably erase any newfound knowledge and bits of recovered memory?

Yeah, that’ll work out great.

John looked at Sherlock, parted his mouth but quickly closed it. What should he tell him?

Sherlock watched John with narrowed eyes through all this. John wasn’t sure what he saw, or deduced, but his expression slowly changed in the blink of an eye to one of comprehension.

“I was there, of course, but as you see me right now. From your point of view we didn’t end up in separate places.” Sherlock stated. Not right away. “And…there is more.” John nodded, still unsure what exactly would be wise to say. “Tell me.”

Once again, John hesitated. “I…found something, and you reacted badly.”

Sherlock looked to be one second away from rolling his eyes. “There’s no need to be that specific John.”

John glared. “I’m not finished yet, smart arse.” John decided to try for as vague as possible, at first. Sherlock could snark at him for doing that if he wished, something told John that blurting out every detail of what happened – at least at this point – could potentially result in another break, which could lead to John yet again wandering aimlessly, a thing he would really like to avoid – for both their sakes. And as much as John would like to talk to Sherlock about every detail of what John saw, not just in the hallway rooms, but before that, with the little boy, he knew that would not be wise at this venture.

Maybe that would change.

An inappropriate giggle wanted to escape John when he noticed that Sherlock was practically dancing on his feet with impatience.

He breathed deeply. Here goes. “Alright, we had a...conversation.” Yeah, that’s one word for it. “You walked off, a couple objects fell on me, I showed them to you, and yes, you reacted badly. You then opened a trap door, pulled me through, we ended up in a St. Barts lab room, and then on a canyon, you collapsed and I was thrown...somewhere else. When I came to, I was in an abandoned series of rooms; I eventually happened across a hallway that lead to me here and, well...here I am.” John gestured around them.

That was pathetic, and not just because John said it too nonchalantly to make ‘that’s all there was to it’, sound believable. Even John knew that, he half-expected Sherlock to start an impatient tirade about John’s incompetence at reciting facts or some such.

Sherlock blinked quickly, and then straightened out of his slight bend towards John, all the while fixing John with a curious eye; stare unbroken.

“Hm…” Sherlock exhaled a breath smoky from the coolness of the air. He finally looked away from John, shivered and rubbed his now ungloved hands together. “Shall we?” He nodded to some indeterminate point towards the road, away from 221b, before moving towards that very spot without waiting for John’s reaction.

Er…what? That was it?

John didn’t move right away, too taken aback from Sherlock’s lack of response. He shook his head and quickly followed Sherlock, who was kneeled in the middle of the road; bare hands pressed into the snow. Yet another ‘why?’ popped into John’s head.

“Aren’t you…going to ask me questions? Call me an idiot or something?” John asked, staring at Sherlock in disbelief.

Sherlock didn’t look at him. Whatever he was doing, he was focused on it.

“No.” Sherlock goddamn shrugged.

“Again, what?”

“No?”

“No.” Sherlock reiterated. This time, he did look up at John. “It is obvious you are purposefully avoiding telling me everything for a reason, and given the nature of our brief rather unusual acquaintance so far, I don’t doubt you wouldn’t do that unless you had a good reason. You said I reacted badly.” Sherlock pointedly looked at John, John nodded. Sherlock seemed satisfied by the response. “Then, given the fact that you seemed inordinately pleased to see me just now, you must’ve eventually been separated from this me, the part actively trying to fix all this, and it seemed like a while to you. What you found in my purgatory was obviously significant enough to warrant such a strong reaction in myself that your first instinct when you saw me was to oversee my appearance for anything abnormal, and were relieved when you saw I didn’t have any wounds or appeared sick like you were clearly expecting.” Sherlock took a somewhat shaky breath here, and once again refocused his attention to the ground. “I do not know why, or how, but somehow your…presence is making it easier for me to focus and make progress. I can assume the general idea of what occurred, and that it means we are nearer to the goal, for now, as aggravating as it might be to myself, it is enough – very little about me is predictable in this state, if it means us not getting separated again, I’m sure I can survive not knowing the details.” Sherlock glanced at John briefly; his eyes were surprisingly open, before roughly brushing the snow away from in front of him.

“Well, um, ok then…” John shrugged, feeling a bit awkward. That was easier than he expected. Sherlock confirmed what John half-suspected, and was justly right about his intentions and reasons, and he thought there might’ve been a wayward compliment or something in there somewhere, even so John hadn’t been expecting that type of reply.

Unpredictable indeed. Honestly? It was another aspect of Sherlock John found himself enjoying, to a degree – he assumed that would probably change depending on the situation.

“Aha!” There was that noise of Sherlock-triumph again.

John bent over to look at what Sherlock was seeing, or had done.

All John could see was a square of exposed road.

“Am I…missing something?”

Sherlock looked up. John expected him to be smiling. He wasn’t. If anything, his expression was closed off.

“I have to go deeper, into myself, further than I have gone before.” His words were uttered with a far too even tone of voice.

John wasn’t certain what that meant, but he could guess.

He straightened and nodded firmly.

“Let’s do it then.” John tried to project an air of support, battle stations ready, something he sensed Sherlock needed even if the man would never admit it.

If Sherlock saw what John was doing, he didn’t say anything; but a tinge of gratefulness shone in his eyes.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and placed his bare hands on the road.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then John felt familiar quakes build beneath them.

“Bugger.” John muttered, bending his knees and reaching out his arms to steady himself.

“I’m getting…I can’t, something is preventing me from-” Sherlock exhaled his shaky words through gritted teeth. He inhaled in shock when a particularly strong quake nearly threw him to the side, it didn’t and his focused remained resolute.

It caused John to fall into the snow though – the melting snow now around his body only made the feeling marginally less uncomfortable. He quickly righted himself and crawled over to Sherlock.

The man’s limbs were shaking with some immense effort, like a weight, or many of them, were pressing down on his back.

He seemed beyond words now. John was amazing Sherlock was able to hold himself up at all, that would probably change soon.

The quaking got worse.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

“What the hell do I do?” John growled in frustration, staring powerlessly at the struggling man.

When a building began to crumble, so did Sherlock himself.

feck this. John was not allowing this to happen again, never mind that there was probably nothing he could do to prevent it.

John threw himself forward and took hold of Sherlock around his shoulders from behind, looping his arms around the front of Sherlock’s shoulders, and pulled; determined to hold him up.

It was the most contact John had had with this man.

John could feel it. He didn’t know what it was, or where it was coming from, but John could feel whatever Sherlock was straining against.

And God help him, John would use whatever strength he possessed to keep Sherlock from collapsing. Again.

“Come on Sherlock, you can do this. I know you can.”

The quakes continued.

“How…” Sherlock groaned under breath, his arms began to fold in earnest.

John only pulled up tighter.

“I just do alright?”

It wasn’t particularly inspirational, but Sherlock obviously heard it and something changed. There was a loud, groan from the road and cracks began to form beneath them.

Please, please let that be a good thing!

John instinctually tightened his hold on Sherlock, and he felt the man below him regain some strength in his limbs.

The cracks became wider and sure enough, the two of them fell through the Baker St road.

As they fell through darkness, John never let go.

~

They landed on hard, yet soft ground. Again, the strength of the impact forced them to roll apart once they reached ground zero.

“Uh…” John groaned. The ground beneath him crunched as he rolled onto his back.

Why is it always falling?

…Sherlock.

John’s eyes flashed open. “Sherlock?” John called out. He pushed himself to sitting and immediately cast his gaze over the area, hoping Sherlock was close.

And…there.

Sherlock lay, seemingly unconscious, on his side at the base of a large tree (?) covered in moss.

The shadow from the long branches obscured his face greatly, only faint slivers of skin were visible – and John didn’t like what he saw, he saw a red that looked an awful lot like…blood.

“Sherlock!” John shouted and quickly stood up.

Aforementioned man began to stir as soon as John made a move towards him.

“John.” His voice was deeply worn, barely audible.

John’s mouth tightened. He reached the side of a shaky limbed Sherlock; the man had pushed himself up to standing but was leaning heavily on the tree beside his weakened form.

John wanted to reach out and do…something. He clenched his hands.

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock lifted his hand to the side of his face, pressing lightly he barely restrained a wince.

Even draped in shadow as they were, it was easy to tell that Sherlock wasn’t looking at John.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock wiped his hand angrily across the sleeve of his coat then pushed away from the tree.

John barely had enough time to prevent himself from being crashed into. He watched carefully, but Sherlock hardly made a step before stumbling.

“Whoa!” John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm to stop him from collapsing. “Maybe you should sit for-”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock aggressively yanked his hand away from John’s grasp. “There is no time for your concern, Doctor, we must press on.” His words held stubbornness to rival even John’s.

The movement of rapidly pulling his arm away caused Sherlock to stagger backwards a few steps, exposing his face properly to light and revealing a glaring, bloody, long cut across the arc of his cheek. John grimaced, automatically taking a step forward with the intention of examining the wound. When Sherlock actually backed away from John, he stopped in both surprise and – pathetically – hurt. The latter was a fleeting reaction, there were any number of reasons why Sherlock wouldn’t want John to touch him, this wasn’t exactly a normal situation.

John raised his hands in defeat and gave Sherlock a bit more space.

“Alright, alright.”

Other than the wound, Sherlock mostly appeared tired – more than tired. As seconds passed he seemed to grow steadier on his feet, John noted with relief.

Given what just happened, John imagined they must be in a deeper part of Sherlock’s mind, possibly closer to the source of Sherlock’s greatest pain. Who wouldn’t be extra sensitive?

Besides, the wound appeared to be superficial at least. And John would stick close to Sherlock in case he stumbled again, or something happened that forced him to the edge of breakdown. John didn’t know what he did, but when he physically pulled Sherlock up and towards him back on Baker St, when the man was near collapse, it seemed to have an effect. It gave Sherlock a moment of strength.

Coniuncti Sumus?

Sherlock straightened, completely negating the fact that he was showing signs of experiencing physical pain, proud despite the vulnerability John saw in him only moments before – perhaps even more so.

“Good.” Sherlock gave John a grateful nod before walking off, not bothering to wait for John.

Bugger. John jogged until he was in line with him again. Sherlock didn’t say anything, hands in his pockets, his eyes faced forward – pointedly not looking at John.

Why is he determined to not look at me?

John decided to wait him out - anticipating Sherlock would provide some manner of explanation for their current predicament, maybe even what they were looking for. That would be nice.

It was as a tense silence settled between them, whether that was because of where they were or something else John couldn’t name, that John finally noticed the environment in which they found themselves.

It was a forest.

John resisted the humourless laugh building in his body. So a literal forest of the mind? Fitting.

Trees, massive in size were dispersed all around them, the barest amount of leaves on the spindly, disfigured branches, peeling moss encrusted bark and low to the ground fog added to the unnerving, otherworldly quality of it all. This was accentuated by the few beams of light that managed to penetrate the canopy of them, obscuring whatever sky that may (or may not) exist. The colour and feel was wrong for sunlight, or moonlight, John didn’t know what it was, but it pierced the fog and John’s skin tingled whenever he passed underneath it.

The sounds of fallen twigs and dead leaves they stepped on as they walked were the only sound.

It felt old, incredibly old.

No one could mistake this for a natural forest.

As far as John could tell there was no path, yet Sherlock was moving forward a few steps ahead of John without hesitation like he knew where he was going – that or he was just as clueless as John and didn’t show it.

Neither man spoke for several minutes. The environment around them didn’t change – to the degree that John thought maybe they were going in circles. Or maybe every tree just looked the same.

John was contemplating breaking the silence when a familiar smell (smell?) assaulted his senses.

John frowned in confusion as he looked to the man walking purposefully ahead of him and, sure enough –

Sherlock didn’t turn around, but John swore he saw him roll his eyes anyway. He exhaled and, again, another puff of smoke hit John in the face. He quickly picked up his pace to be level with Sherlock, if only to avoid getting hit in the face by the nauseating smoke.

“No. In case you’ve forgotten, it is impossible for me to actually be smoking.” Sherlock sighed, pulling away a cigarette from his lips, John’s eyes barely twitched when he noticed the cylinder morph into an old pipe in his hands; the smoke emanating was the same. “Pity.” He mumbled as once again, he breathed the pipe/cigarette deeply.

John hated to admit it, but there was a certain beauty to the way the smoke curled around Sherlock’s face.

It was still immensely unhealthy, and it was only the fact that Sherlock was right – big surprise – and he wasn’t actually smoking that stopped John from yanking the death stick out of his mouth. But, when John thought about what he saw in that hallway room before, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that – apparently – Sherlock also smoked.

It was a vice, and a coping mechanism, and clearly at that moment Sherlock needed one.

“So you smoke too?” John cursed himself when he realized what he inadvertently implied.

For the first time Sherlock looked squarely at John’s face with a calculating eye, never breaking his stride.

“Hm. It seems you saw some interesting things Doctor, while you were gallivanting around my head. Have fun?” His eyes were icy as they stared John down.

John clenched his fists and bit down his immediate reaction to the allegation in Sherlock’s words; indignation and anger, which was clearly how Sherlock expected John to react.

He’s lashing out. In all honesty John couldn’t say he’d be all that pleased either if someone were in his head, witnessing his secrets.

“No, of course not. Are you still using?” John was careful to not let any judgement lace his tone. He was worried for sure about the implications, and reality of how deep Sherlock’s addictions ran and for how long, but he couldn’t exactly stand high up on a pedestal with his history.

Sherlock blinked, the iciness melting away into only a mild suspicion. He grunted, resuming his focus forward.

“No. My brother made sure of that. Opium alleviated the mind-numbing boredom; Cocaine did the same, while focusing my mind when it was necessary. Magick only got me so far, so the cases were – are the only other vice I can indulge in without anyone lecturing me on the dangers to my health.” Sherlock chuckled humorously. “As if I’d listen to them. If I really wanted to use again, I would.” He exhaled a new wave of smoke. “So, I smoke. Helps me think. Not quite the stigma as opioid drug use, still, it was growing impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London. Navigating law restrictions, annoying and tedious. More often than not it was necessary to resort to patches.” Sherlock near spat the word. He breathed in through the pipe, which rippled into the form of a cigarette in his fingers. Sherlock seemed to be mostly talking to himself then, but the way he would subtly – unconsciously – tense every time John accidently stepped closer, proved he wasn’t unaware of John’s presence at his side. “Bad news for brain work.”

John snorted. “Good news for breathing.”

Sherlock groaned. “Ugh breathing, breathing’s boring.”

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief.That makes no sense. John sighed; he doubted there was any point in responding to that.

If they got out of this, maybe John could work on convincing Sherlock he doesn’t need to compromise his health in order to work his best.

Somehow, John had a feeling that would be a near impossible challenge. Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not stubborn.

John exhaled heavily and rested a weary hand on his face for a moment.

This wasn’t an unimportant subject, but at the moment they had more immediate concerns.

“So, where are we headed to?” It would be really nice to know how much longer they would be walking in this forest for, the way every single tree looked alike was seriously creeping John the hell out.

Gathering by the slightly more relaxed pose, Sherlock was grateful for the change in topic. There was still a significant amount of tension emanating from him though, and it showed in his snappish attitude ever since they landed here.

To John, Sherlock was acting like an animal that had been backed into a corner. He had to tread very, very carefully.

“I have absolutely no idea.” Sherlock shrugged. The cigarette/pipe vanished in, ironically, a puff of smoke. His hands were bare as he stuffed them in the pockets of his long, dark coat.

That wasn’t quite what he expected.

John blinked. “Seriously?”

“I told you, deeper than I have ever been before. What we need to find, will find us. As much as I despise waiting, it is often a necessary evil to solving a mystery. Even, it seems, when inside my own mind.”

John groaned inwardly. Fantastic. So they were walking aimlessly, basically.

He didn’t know what it was, but the further they walked, the more unsettled John became. Maybe it meant they were getting close?

Perhaps John could use this time to get to know Sherlock a little better.

He felt he already knew more about Sherlock than many friends he’d known for years, but John just knew that it would take years beyond counting to truly know the full breadth of the man, how he works, the ins and outs of what drives him, and John would never fully know him.

John found he wasn’t bothered by a portion of the man forever remaining a mystery to him. It was a part of Sherlock Holmes’s confusing, inescapable charm.

“Tell me about some of your cases.” John quipped with a curious look in Sherlock’s direction. “If you want.” He quickly added, when Sherlock looked at him blankly in surprise.

John had only seen small examples of Sherlock on a case; most in that hallway room, but he was fascinated and amazed by this man’s ability and how he chooses to use it. He had no doubt that Sherlock would be a formidable criminal if his talents were turned against the law.

John was exceedingly curious to say the least. Not to mention distracting Sherlock from whatever gloom was plaguing him – understandably so – might ease his way in all this, he seemed to gather strength by the physical support John gave him earlier, somehow.

“Oh. You really want to know?” John thought he saw a brief smile grace Sherlock’s face, but it was there and gone before John could be sure.

This was a pattern, whenever John expressed genuine curiosity and fascination with his Work and abilities Sherlock always, even if only for a second, looked not just pleased – but surprised. He’d probably gotten ridiculed for them more often than not, John thought, which was a shame. It didn’t help that Sherlock was not only stubborn, but unerringly blunt and adept at inappropriately observing and thus exposing a person’s life based on clues in their appearance and behaviour, seeming not to care if he exposed a sore spot – to him, it was simply the truth.

The unchanging forest continued to move with them as they walked a directionless path through the woods, their footsteps and sounds of their synchronized breathing the only noises.

Sherlock was looking at John out of the corner of his eye, waiting.

John nodded. “Of course.”

Sherlock blinked quickly. And just like that, his entire being transformed; gone was the reserved misery in his eyes, expressionless mask, tense line of his shoulders and John no longer had the feeling that Sherlock would bite his hand off if he miss-stepped in anyway.

“Hmm, where should all I start…” Sherlock placed his palms together in familiar pose, resting his hands in front of his chin. He began to walk faster, so John had to pick up his own pace.

In short, what John was seeing was Sherlock alive with enthusiasm. John in no way had to force a smile; the warmth he felt at seeing this sight fuelled it.

“Oh! Shortly after I turned thirty one, this would’ve been 1885, many years before I established myself as a Consulting Detective and became fully committed to the Work, although I did on occasion solve many a mystery that crossed my path, as a result I already had a reputation of sorts. At the time I was studying at Oxford after completing my undergraduate degree at Cambridge, a fellow classmate; John Openshaw - a Warlock with unusual elemental Magick, approached me after his uncle was found murdered and the only clue at was a page from his diary dating 1869 regarding incidents in which three sets of five orange pips were sent to three different men, all of whom were Illusionists…”

And so Sherlock talked.

He didn’t stop. John listened with a keen and interested ear; his fascination with Sherlock only grew the longer he shared and spoke about his numerous experiences.

John couldn’t – or wouldn’t – name it, but something in him changed in those moments.

It felt a lot like flying, or swimming in deep water and miraculously not drowning.

Something else changed as Sherlock talked, not just his energy and mannerisms growing more animated.

The trees and forest around them changed. That light John couldn’t pin point a name for grew more intense, and though the fog and actual appearance of the trees was largely the same, they became…more alive. John didn’t know how else to describe it.

He just continued to watch and listen to Sherlock. John allowed himself a moment to acknowledge how beautiful Sherlock was – and it wasn’t just physically. This person beside him, everything around John, was all a part of Sherlock’s mind. His mind was beautiful; a never-ending maze of knowledge and possibility, a battlefield.

It was when John realized that not even being a Soldier or Doctor gave him the same feeling of life as being around Sherlock did, that John openly acknowledged to himself that yes – perhaps he was a little besotted.

Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

Chapter 9

Devastated

“…it was his dog that proved it in the end-” Sherlock was toward the tail end of reviewing to John yet another case, much later in his life. “-this really intelligent Collie honestly had more brains, and probably a higher IQ, than his human companion. I’ll admit I had a penchant for dogs after that, I’d never had practical experience with them before. Unfortunately, my childhood was rather restricted in that regard and I never got around to having one myself – Mycroft discouraged it, citing my lifestyle as uncondusive to caring for an animal. He was right – though I never told him that of course.” Sherlock’s sigh was despondent, but he shrugged it off quickly enough. He resumed talking.

But John didn’t hear him.

John was reeling.

Wait a minute…Sherlock never had a dog?

Then what was – “You never had a dog?” John stopped walking and stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock, who had still been talking, stopped and turned to face John completely. There was confusion in his eyes as he gazed at John.

“No. Not everyone grew up with Fido or Fluffy you know.”

The abrupt tone in conversation caused the more alight forest to return to its previous, subdued state.

John exhaled. “Yes, I know, but never in your life?”

“No…” Sherlock emphasized; all burrowing into John with his eyes. “Why are you this surprised?”

John shook his head, not saying anything.

What did this mean? John had seen this dog, multiple times, and not just in Sherlock’s head! But outside of it too. And that memory with Sherlock likely overdosed on whatever drug he was taking at the time…that dog was with him, and Sherlock obviously knew it, had talked to it – yes, oddly, but like the dog was his.

It could’ve just been a result of the fracturing Sherlock’s mind took, but when despite that, he was able to recall events and people from over a century ago with crystal clarity, why would he conveniently forget a dog that seemed to be important to him?

Because it had to be important.

The dog…was the dog the key? Sherlock didn’t seem to remember it…

Had John been inadvertently seeing the “residue” left behind by the repressed, locked away memories this entire time?

Shit. John’s pulse started racing. What does this mean?

“John! What is it?”

He must’ve been really out of it. Sherlock’s shout and a jostling movement shocked John out of his trance. The man was standing directly in front of John, hands grasping John shoulders; eyes wide as he stared at Johns face.

Did Sherlock shake him?

John didn’t have time to ponder the implications of Sherlock’s hands gripping his shoulders with surprising strength.

John maintained eye contact with Sherlock as he uttered his response with caution, uncertain on how Sherlock would react. “I think I know what we need to look for, at least I have an idea.”

Sherlock frowned. His hands fell away from John’s shoulders, but he didn’t step back. He didn’t say anything, undoubtedly waiting for John to explain himself.

John watched Sherlock carefully and steeled himself. If the recent past was any indication (aka, dog collar), Sherlock wasn’t going to react well.

Maybe that was unavoidable.

“Before I entered your mind, I didn’t just see you.” John breathed in. Sherlock tilted his head curiously, his feet moving on the spot with impatience. “I saw a dog, a red setter.”

Sherlock became very, very still.

Nothing happened for a moment, and John watched in growing worry at the utter lack of reaction from Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John reached out in a manner similar to what Sherlock had just been doing with him. The second John’s hands touched Sherlock’s shoulders he knew something was wrong, even through the thick coat Sherlock felt cold, frozen. feck. “Sherlock!” John practically shouted in his face.

Sherlock jumped as though electrocuted and staggered backwards, away from John; his face dead white. “I-”

He didn’t get more than that one word out before they both heard it.

A dog, loud barks quickly turning into long, mournful howls.

The ground started to shake.

Oh no, not this again. John automatically reached out and grabbed the dumbstruck Sherlock’s arms.

The dog sounds were getting closer.

Loud cracks from within the trees echoed painfully loud in John’s ears as the quakes grew.

“RUN!” Sherlock bellowed and did just that, in the opposite direction of where the sounds of the dog were coming from; back the way they came.

Not knowing what else to do, John started running too. Soon, he and Sherlock were running side by side through the maze of trees.

John cursed inwardly every profanity he could possibly think of. What are we going to do now?

Sherlock was moving at an impossibly fast rate, John somehow managed to match his speed – something John new he wouldn’t be able to do in his actual body.

Another loud crack echoed nearby and a root started rising out of the ground, directly in front of John.

He managed to jump over it in time but the unexpectedness of it threw John off balance, especially as another quake rocked Sherlock’s mental earth.

John was sure he was going to fall, but in the split second before that could happen a hand reached out to steady John by grasping his flailing hand by the wrist.

In the distance the dog continued to howl. No matter how far they ran, they never seemed to get farther away.

Why is Sherlock running? John asked himself, side-glancing at the man.

All but holding hands, they narrowly avoided a collapsing tree by making a sharp left towards a thicker part of the forest, Sherlock pulling John along the way.

This wasn’t like “real life”, since there was no apparent breakdown on Sherlock’s part and subsequent falling through a hole in the earth, John highly doubted they would be able to outrun Sherlock himself…since that’s what all this was isn’t? The dog, whatever it meant, was Sherlock, and the times any allusion to a dog – the dog – happened it only seemed to set them back…because, Sherlock ran. The first time; through the trap door, the second time; Sherlock collapsed and John was flung away.

Maybe John unintentionally absorbed some of what Dr. Thompson said in therapy, or maybe it was this innate instinct regarding Sherlock John felt in his gut. Whatever it was, John had the crazy thought that maybe in order to make any progress here, to find the blocked memories they were looking for, they had to stop running.

John did recall that the apple, and the dog collar, found him, not vice versa.

Logic was all twisted around up in here.

It was mad, insane, and possibly yes a tad bonkers, but didn’t see another alternative – they could keep running, and hope something just happens, but not only did John not see anything new in the upcoming distance, they weren’t outrunning the barking and quakes at all, they were just as prevalent and loud as they were at the start.

Time to take a risk then, and hope John’s intuition doesn’t get them in deeper shit – the kind they aren’t looking for.

“Sherlock stop!” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand as tight as he could and pulled.

Their abrupt stop wasn’t smooth, but at least they didn’t fall over.

John could already feel and hear the barking and quakes getting louder, stronger.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, looking completely drained, much more so than John.

“What? Why are you being an idiot! We have to keep going!” Sherlock tried to start running again, but John held fast.

Sherlock didn’t let him, John could feel his grip slipping. So, John did the only other thing he could do.

He jumped, slamming Sherlock onto the ground. They both grunted at the impact, John used his diverse military and defense training to keep Sherlock still, this didn’t stop the man from growling and struggling below him.

“Listen, just – stop will you!” John near shouted through gritted teeth. Sherlock didn’t stop, he was getting desperate now. John thought he saw tears forming in Sherlock’s eyes as a result of his frustration. John felt a pang in his heart. “Why do we have to run?”

Sherlock tried to throw John off. He managed to do so halfway, but before he could squirm out from John’s hold too far, John plastered himself completely over Sherlock’s body; both of them breathed loudly.

“Sherlock! Please, I know you’re not in your right mind right now, but try to think, why are you running?” It was both a rhetorical and honest question, if only John could get Sherlock out of flight mode…

Throughout all this, the ground continued to shake and the sounds of a barking dog grew.

“Get off me!”

John debated it, but he did let go. Before Sherlock could so much as move though, John asked again, using his “Captain John Watson” voice this time.

“Why. Are. You. Running?”

Sherlock writhed a few more times, but seemed to pause.

“I…I don’t know.” Sherlock turned his to the side, exposing part of his expression to John; he appeared greatly confused.

John breathed in and out, nodding.

“Alright, how about we stop running then? You know, see what happens.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched.

“See what happens? That’s your, professional opinion, John?”

Well, at least he’s not spitting ‘Doctor’ at me anymore.

“Yes, so as your Doctor, you should listen to me.”

Something in Sherlock’s form changed. “You’re my Doctor, are you?” There was a teasing note to his voice, but there was also another emotion John had trouble placing.

John froze. He didn’t mean it to sound like that.

Suddenly John realized he was still draped over Sherlock. He quickly backed off. In his haste he landed, ungracefully, on his arse.

In their brief exchange John had failed to notice that not only had the quakes stopped, the sound of dog barking had as well.

John wasn’t all that reassured though. The forest had become darker, and John swore he felt something like a patient gaze on the back of his neck.

It was all very ominous.

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face as the man pushed himself to his knees, his hands coming to rest atop his thighs.

He was…slumped, like no more energy existed in him.

“Hey.” John murmured. He half crawled over to Sherlock and casually placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry; I’m a very good Doctor. I even managed to go to school for it, you know. Not Oxford or Cambridge like some smart arses I know, but hey, we can’t all be geniuses.”

Sherlock, despite the misery he was emanating in waves, actually laughed.

Bingo. John grinned.

“You give yourself too little credit, John Watson.” Sherlock uttered; quiet and gentle, in a way John had yet to hear from him.

John…didn’t know what to say to that. He exhaled a slight laugh. If his hand stroked Sherlock’s arm a little when he took his hand away, well…

There was silence, an ominous, foreboding silence.

Sherlock finally turned to look at John. It was as he met John’s eyes that he appeared to spot something over John’s shoulder. Sherlock’s eyes went wide.

John frowned slightly and turned around…his frown cleared away.

Oh.

The dog was standing not five feet away.

“I can’t do this.”

John whipped back around at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

The man was literally shaking.

“Sherlock?”

“I can’t…I don’t, I don’t know what this…”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arms. “Yes, you can.”

Sherlock didn’t stop shaking, if anything he started to shake more.

“NO! I can’t! I won’t!” Sherlock practically screamed in John’s face and pushed him away.

John grunted in surprise at the force, groaning when he landed on a sharp rock.

He heard the dog begin to growl.

John quickly scrambled to get up, breathing hard. He got to his feet just in time to see the dog leap at a scrambling Sherlock and –

John gasped as the sensation of falling hit him once again.

This time, there was no in-between.

One moment, John was watching a dog leap at Sherlock; the next John saw a wet, rocky surface gaining size in his vision as he fell.

He landed, hard, on his front.

“Uh…” John groaned.

The sound of loud, running water rang in his ears. Still a bit disoriented, John was a bit shaky as he got up.

He gasped at what he saw; he was on a ledge, halfway down a massive cliff, at barely ten feet away a huge waterfall cascading into unknown depths below. Moonlight illuminated the immediate area to a starling degree, beyond the cliff face there was only darkness, save the moon high above. John couldn’t tell if it was raining, or if he was getting overspray from the falls, either way he was soaked.

He heard another groan.

John wiped his eyes clear of water and saw what looked like Sherlock (thank god) moving to get up from an uncomfortable landing position, much like John. But he was struggling, and still obviously shaking.

John moved forward and –

Grunted in surprise as he once again went flying backward, inevitably hitting the face of the cliff. John bit his lip to keep from screaming out at the intense pain, that exploded along his back and knees, the latter from collapsing after hitting the wall.

Goddamnit. John felt like the blow not only brought new pain, but accentuated all his old (or not so old) pain along with it, and not just physical…what’s happening?

It took all of John strength to not express what he was feeling through voice.

He briefly wondered if the Sherlock he saw was the one who pushed him away, but as John lifted his head up he saw not one man…but two.

There was someone – something else here.

John recognized this man. He’d only ever needed to see that face once to remember it.

Moriarty.

“feck!” John seethed through gritted teeth. This can’t be good.

John tried to move, to get up, and to…do something. But it was slow going; the pain was weighing him down like an outside force unto himself.

“It’s quite lovely here, isn’t it? I don’t know why you don’t come down here more often. I do miss having someone to play with.” That voice was as oily and snakelike as the man who carried it.

Sherlock was standing up now, but he looked like he was barely keeping it together. The water from what must be rain made it hard for John to see details, all he could tell was that there was a tremble to Sherlock’s form and the man was dressed far differently than he had been before, but John recognized the clothing.

From the photograph. This was Sherlock as his 19th century self. Except this time the moisture from the water caused his slicked back hair to curl at the edges.

Moriarty was facing Sherlock fully now, John couldn’t see his face. He could see however, that Moriarty was edging closer to Sherlock.

John’s desperation to move grew.

“Yes, I know. I am you, remember?” Moriarty gestured to himself with wide, exaggerated arm movements. “I’m pretty sure I would never have worn…this.” Moriarty picked at parts of his old-fashioned clothing with distaste. “Ugh, how grateful I am that fashion improved since the 1800’s, among other things, at least you won’t be castrated and thrown in jail for loving cock, not in England any way. No, you’ll be ostracized and judged by masses of idiots instead. At least we have bigger guns now. What a great time to be alive!” Moriarty cackled, turning his face up to the falling water.

What was he doing here? A manifestation of Sherlock in some way, but what? Fear? Anger? Considering what Moriarty did to and brought about in Sherlock…The fact that he’d shown up here at all…

The block had to be closed.

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, but his posture indicated not only hardly restrained fear, but a new determination as well.

John angrily muttered to himself as he forced his aching body to just move already, but it was happening too slowly for him.

“Why, why are you here?” Sherlock was practically growling.

Moriarty snorted. “You tell me – oh wait, you can’t can you? So sad. Poor wittle Sherlock, not so invulnerable to the weaknesses of humanity are we? Your mind would rather slowly rot to death, with nothing but delightful me for company, than subject yourself to the terrible realization that you’re not a Sociopath after all. Admit it, my dear.” Moriarty, hands in his pockets, sauntered in almost dance like motions towards the rigid Sherlock. “You weren’t just fascinated by my, prowess-” Moriarty giggled. The sheer glee in Moriarty’s voice turned John’s stomach. Was he actually like this? “-as a criminal mastermind, but you secretly envied me, wanted to be like me - the true Sociopath, because if you were…then you wouldn’t have felt…it.” Moriarty sang that last word in a vaguely operatic taunt, and the evil bastard actually twirled on the spot. “Then again, if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here would we? This little chat is the most fun I’ve had in a looong time.”

A stream of moonlight pierced through the waterfall’s spray and illuminated Sherlock’s face for a moment – with more the haunting signs of fear and panic, deathly white skin and the determination to remain strong in the face of Moriarty, and what he represented, crumbling away faster than the speed of the falls.

Moriarty’s head tilted obscenely to the right, lifted up a hand and twisted it sharply in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock screamed in pain and collapsed.

“Sherlock!” John yelled. feck this. John pushed himself quickly onto his shaky feet, in his haste he nearly fell off the cliff – his heart pounded loudly in his ears – but was able to steady himself in time with one hand on the cliff wall.

“Why…why are you doing this, to me...?” Sherlock uttered brokenly.

Moriarty shrugged. “Because I can.” Moriarty made a tossing movement with his hand that caused Sherlock to be thrown backwards…dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

“You’re insane.” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth, moving himself onto his knees – breathing in pain all the while.

John tried to walk, and nearly fell when an overwhelming pain – not his own – hit his chest. What…what’s happening… The edges of John’s vision began to blur. No, not now, please…

Moriarty sighed, like he was annoyed. “Haven’t we already had this discussion? If I’m insane, it’s because you are. You’re talking to yourself you idiot.” Moriarty strode purposefully forward. Sherlock tried to move away, but Moriarty was too strong and pulled the struggling Sherlock onto his feet; their faces barely an inch apart. “The only reason I’m still here, is because you’re allowing me to be. I am the only thing between you and what you’re trying to forget. You can’t deal with it. You’re not strong enough. You’re weak. So, pathetically human, barely worthy of being an Enchanter.” Moriarty spat. “Just like all the other weaklings of this world, you succumb to the trap of emotion...you would rather let yourself decay, left to be fed on by spiders like me, than remember your pain, or-” Moriarty grinned at Sherlock maniacally and forced himself forehead to forehead with Sherlock. “-risk the possibility of feeling anything like what you felt ever, ever again.”

Sherlock made an almost animalistic sound and head-butted Moriarty. The shock caused the man to stumble backwards, however the action seemed to drain whatever strength in Sherlock remained and once again he buckled onto his knees.

Moriarty laughed. “Very good. But you are failing to comprehend one thing.” Moriarty continued laughing as he again reached down and pulled Sherlock to his feet; his strength alone kept Sherlock from collapsing under his own weight. His head lolled to the side.

The rain pounded harder, the waterfall fell faster, and the world started to spin. John was struggling under the weight of pain holding him down. Hating himself for not being strong enough – no, no John wouldn’t give into that. He couldn’t afford it. Not when Sherlock was in danger – even if it was from his own self.

John pushed himself onto his elbows just in time to see Moriarty swing Sherlock close enough to the edge that the edge of Sherlock’s boot kicked a lose piece of the rocky edge, causing it to tumble off into the darkness below.

The change in position gave John a clear view of Sherlock’s face.

He looked dead.

No.

And that, hit John harder than anything had so far. Sherlock no longer felt like a stranger to John, a random person laying decrepit on a bed in a debilitating coma, Sherlock was…Sherlock.

John’s only words when he lay bleeding on the Afghan desert floor, bullet ripped through his shoulder spattering far too much blood everywhere, were ‘Please God, let me live.’

John repeated those words to himself, with one notable exception.

Please God, let him live.

“You can’t fight me. Can you? Hasn’t this whole thing taught you anything? It has always been, and always will be you and me. You can try and run as far as your human heart desires, but in the end it will always come back to this, to us, struggling on his ledge – me, draining you of whatever pitiable strength you have. Isn’t it – ah, delicious?” Moriarty goddamn cackled.

And John snapped.

A warm, hot, feeling built in John from within the marrow of his bones; electrifying him from the inside out. He barely spared a thought to what it might be. John pushed himself to his feet and all but sprinted towards the two men.

“Evil bastard!” John roared as he slammed into Moriarty’s side.

The force of John’s impact dislodged Moriarty from Sherlock. The latter landed roughly with half a foot dangling off the cliffs edge, and the former flew with a scream into black pit below.

“Good riddance.” John unconsciously placed a hand over his fast beating heart.

His breath came in heavy exhales, adrenaline still coursed through his veins as water continued to fall painfully on his back, drenching John completely.

He didn’t feel the chill.

It may not have actually been Moriarty, but that was all John saw – the image of that combined with the very real reality of Sherlock decaying before his very eyes…John felt such rage that surprised even him.

The result was inevitable.

A groan broke John out of his daze.

He whipped around, saw Sherlock laying on his back, trembling near John’s position, and dropped to his knees beside the man.

John cursed himself, hoping he didn’t somehow do more damaged by charging as recklessly as he did.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, talk to me.” John tried to remain calm, but his voice neared desperation. He positioned himself so the rain and water wouldn’t fall directly on Sherlock’s face, but there was no point – much like John, the man was already soaked.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, and he breathed in a shaky, shallow breath.

“John.”

John forced a reassuring smile, he tried to feel relief at Sherlock speaking – but being this close to him, John could see how bad off he truly was; face ashen, drained of all energy, he looked like a man on the edge of giving up.

It was a sight John had seen too many times in his life, mostly friends in the army, some John managed to save – and some he couldn’t.

And now, Sherlock.

Over my dead body.

“Yeah, yeah it’s me. He’s gone now. What can I do? Tell me what to do.” John knew he was speaking far too fast, and felt fear at the sight of Sherlock lightly shaking his head not quite looking at John.

“Nothing. He’s not gone. He’ll never be gone. He’ll always be here, with me. Always.” Sherlock’s eyes closed and he seemed to cry noiseless tears – the rain made it hard to tell.

Nope.

John gathered his determination and vehemently turned Sherlock’s head to face him. The forced change in position caused Sherlock’s eyes to open again, thinly, fluttering in John’s direction.

“I pushed him off the ledge. I swear, he’s not here.” John insisted.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in a small smile.

“Not him.” Sherlock murmured, a certain distance clouding over his eyes. John frowned in confusion. Who is he talking about then? “You are a recklessly brave man John Watson.”

“Terrible habit, can’t help it. No amount of unnecessary risk lectures by my unit Commander beat that out of me.” John laughed humourlessly.

Sherlock’s face turned, if possible, even more sombre and an intense wave of shivers wracked his body. John tightened his hold, overwhelmed with feeling helpless. feck feck feck what do I do? “You feel responsible for me. You want to save me. You can’t.”

It’s not just about that idiot. What is it then? John asked himself. He didn’t answer.

The moonlight faded, and the rain began to dampen to a trickle.

John felt his heart pang, statements like ‘Yes I can’, ‘don’t give up’, ‘you’re not getting out of this that easy you twat’, were at the tip of his tongue. This wasn’t right, they couldn’t be here right on the edge – literally – of possibly ending all this only to have Sherlock finally falling apart at the seams.

“The east wind takes us all in the end.” Sherlock whispered so quietly John had to strain to hear.

John opened his mouth to say – something, he didn’t know what, but stopped. Horror filled his body as he witnessed familiar wounds sprouting like poison across every inch of Sherlock’s body, including his face; gaping wide knife like cuts, pumping seemingly endless amounts of blood…

…chaos surrounding him, John dragged himself across the rocky sand towards the prone figure…wounds began to form all over his body, his chest, his head, even his feet, he couldn’t see them but John knew they were there…wide, gaping maws leeching far too much blood…The pain was unimaginable.

…Just like in the nightmare John had, made up of memories that couldn’t have been just his. John felt more than saw these wounds before.

They came from Sherlock.

“feck, no.” John cursed, moving his hands over the wounds, trying to put pressure on them – though he knew it was pointless. Sherlock may not have been literally bleeding, but his mind was, the distinction was not reassuring.

Not when Sherlock looked to be on deaths door beneath John’s hands.

“I can’t…I can’t, I can’t do it. I don’t know how…I can’t, c-c…” Sherlock muttered, no longer seeming aware of John as his eyes rolled back into his head, and his entire body jolted over and over – reminding John of a seizure.

John felt tears of frustration, anger, build in his eyes. He was just contemplating shouting for Mycroft, or Greg even, hoping somehow it would get their attention through whatever amount of connection they had – not caring if there was nothing they could do – when John heard something.

A dog howling. And it was coming from off the edge of the cliff.

John froze as yet another mad idea lit up his brain.

But…no, really?

He had to do something, John couldn’t just sit here and watch Sherlock metaphorically bleed out – which seemed inevitable if he just sat there.

What did they have to lose?

John steeled himself. “Sherlock, if you can hear me I need you to listen carefully and trust me. We need to go off the cliff.” Even John’s inner voice was screaming at him.

Are you mad?

Yes, I am, evidently. Completely barmy.

If he was wrong…Shit, what if this caused some sort of chain reaction that killed them both? But, if John was right, and the dog was a part of all this…it was their only option.

Sherlock didn’t respond to what he said. John didn’t really expect him too, he didn’t seem to be capable of anything at the moment.

So…just hold on and roll off the cliff?

Yep, I’ve gone bonkers.

Secretly hoping a less dangerous option would show itself in the next few minutes John positioned himself so he would go off first and wrapped his arms around the bleeding Sherlock – the warmth of which made John feel sick.

John had just started making the movement across those few inches to the cliffs edge…

Sherlock wailed.

The loudness pained deep in John’s head, so much so he was sure his eardrums must’ve ruptured all the way in the real world. It was an involuntary movement that had John reaching up to protect his ears from the banshee-like sound that emanated from Sherlock.

The swiftness, with which Sherlock escaped John’s grasp, limbs squirming and kicking, had John rolling onto his stomach.

What the hell-?

John groaned, quickly stood up and looked towards the cliff face.

He felt sick at what he saw. John clenched his hands to keep from covering his mouth.

“Sherlock…” John exhaled in horror.

The trembling man was half-standing, half bent over, leaning against the wall of the cliff. He was completely naked, what wounds John had seen were now twisted and gnarled into mountains of scars all over Sherlock’s body, and he resembled his real body; emaciated, tight, discoloured skin. Except…this was worse.

Far, far worse.

Sherlock appeared to be slowly shrivelling up before John’s eyes.

John had an abnormally strong stomach, but it still took immense will to keep from vomiting.

His face, his eyes, were the worst. Sherlock was staring at John with wide, unseeing eyes, he looked petrified.

Was this how Moriarty made him feel? Was this what Moriarty did to his victims? Take their greatest pain and use it to twist them from the inside out, suck the life out of them? Leaving their mind and body a husk like…this?

John didn’t make a sound, but he felt tears falling down his face.

“Sherlock…” John spoke as calmly as his emotions allowed him too. Asking Sherlock to go over that cliff edge made John feel like he was asking the man to play Russian roulette with himself, especially when he reacted as violently as he did.

He reacted that strongly because there was something over that ledge.

Their goal, it had to be. John never expected being this close to it would make Sherlock react this way.

He…He can’t, John can’t make him do this. He’s so scared.

But you have to. John wasn’t sure if that was even his voice or not, he knew it was right – and he hated it.

“Sherlock-” John tried again, walking towards him slowly.

“I hate this, John. I hate this.” Sherlock hardly sounded like Sherlock at all, his voice all withered and breathless, and a perfect reflection of how he looked to John at that moment. “Don’t make me do it. I don’t know how, I could hardly deal the…the first t-time, how will I-”

John, resolute, practically leapt the rest of the way to Sherlock. Even hunched over as he was, John still had to reach up to place both his hands on either side of Sherlock’s sunken face.

“Because I’m here. Whatever it is, I promise you are not alone in this. I promise.” John uttered gently, but firmly, he had to make Sherlock believe him. “I don’t care if we’re barely a step up from strangers, I will do whatever is in my power to be there beside you through this, and not just here in your mind.” I must.

John knew he was all but glaring at Sherlock, perhaps not the best thing.

Sherlock’s skin seemed to ripple and twist before John’s eyes; he was staring at John with nothing but sorrow.

“I’m not strong enough. It’s…It’s been too long.” It was just like Sherlock to sound less despondent, and more angry at himself for not having the strength to go on, when the poor man had obviously been fighting his own head in an unknown battle for years.

The two of them were breathing heavily, both for very different reasons.

John gripped Sherlock tighter.

“Yes. You. Are.” You have to be. “You don’t get to do this now you absolute bastard.” Right, very helpful John.

Sherlock’s cracked lips twitched in a barely there smile, but then he slid an inch down the wall, his breathing started to slow. John’s heart constricted when Sherlock’s spindly, withered hands reached up and grasped pathetically at John’s wrists.

“Thank-you, for trying, Dr. Watson.”

If John actually whimpered, he couldn’t have cared less. Sherlock started to become a heavier weight under John’s hands, eyes sliding closed…

Oh no you don’t.

John panicked. And perhaps, did the most reckless thing he had done thus far.

He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock Holmes. His body pressed fully along Sherlock’s front to keep him from falling.

John couldn’t question the wisdom of what he did, in that moment everything narrowed down to that one moment, wet, slick, spine-tingling, and the shocking revelation that Sherlock held onto John’s hands tighter, and – albeit weakly – moved his lips hesitantly against John’s own.

And so, John felt something he hadn’t felt for months.

His Magick.

It built in him like being in a bath slowly filling with hot water; a warm, comforting relief spreading from his toes, up his legs, through his chest and out through the thin yet powerful connection of Sherlock and John’s lips.

It didn’t feel broken, it felt…different.

John had been outside in the cold for so long, he forgot what he felt like to feel warm again.

He was forcefully brought down to their bubble of reality when John noticed an overwhelmingly bright, surge of light pink behind the closed lids of his eyes.

It was gone by the time John opened his eyes, and let his lips fall away from Sherlock.

A different sort of fear starting blaring alarm bells in his head. Oh, feck. What did I do?

John may not have felt fully in control, but he still feared he’d taken advantage of Sherlock somehow given the state he was in. The guilt he felt at enjoying it, despite that, made John feel a different kind of sick.

(In the back of his mind, John noticed that the feeling of his Magick hadn’t left, but more retreated to a corner, out of immediate concern)

He kept his hold (his arms had slid to grasp tightly around Sherlock’s torso) on Sherlock firm, not sure if Sherlock would just collapse if he let go, and only pulled his face away far enough to look at Sherlock’s face.

John’s jaw dropped as astonishment flooded him.

Not only was Sherlock no longer nude, but he looked…healthy.

Rain still pattered above their heads, although much more gentle and warm – unlike before. Whatever the light was that John saw, the only thing that seemed to change as a result (maybe) was Sherlock himself.

It was remarkable.

He still appeared worn, and exhausted, but his hair was once again familiar and curly like John was used to seeing it, his skin had regained some of its colour and though his clothes – the familiar coat, suit and jacket combination – obscured his body, John saw no sign of the wounds that littered his form before.

However, John found himself freezing in place when he fully took in Sherlock’s expression.

He looked…devastated. Impossibly, John couldn’t tell in what way. Sherlock just…he was looking at John in some indefinable way that left John feeling lost. His mouth was slightly parted; his eyes wide and unblinking, the muscles and brow of his face were deeply drawn. It wasn’t just shock.

Sherlock didn’t seem angry, he just seemed…lost.

John felt that panic again. It was only then he noticed that Sherlock was still holding onto John’s arms, he could feel those long fingers trembling slightly.

John was hesitant to back away completely when he still wasn’t sure whether Sherlock could hold himself up or not. So he did so in increments.

Sherlock didn’t react when John slowly slide his arms out from around his back, except to allow his hands to fall away from John.

He watched John as he stepped back. And John watched Sherlock watching him, unrelenting.

The heavy weight of the silence was making it difficult for John to breathe. He looked away.

“I’m…I’m sorry I, I don’t know what came over me.” Not completely.

John meant what he said, sincerely. How would they move on from here if Sherlock felt betrayed or used in some way?

The worst part was that a part of John wanted to kiss him again. Maybe in the outside world next time, if by some miracle he could. John had never felt so affected by a kiss before, and by the look Sherlock had the feeling was mutual – John just didn’t know if that was in a bad or good way, yet.

John heard Sherlock mutter two words, he didn’t quite catch them but something familiar about them felt familiar.

Either he didn’t hear John, or ignored what he said.

He forced himself to look back at Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, was no longer looking at John. He was facing the cliffs edge, staring at the void beyond with fierce, penetrating eyes. He held himself entirely still; utterly composed.

John found himself impressed by the fearlessness of the display. The only thing that gave away any lingering feelings of pain and fear underneath the hardness of what was probably a mask, was the faint tremble in his hands that Sherlock kept close to his sides.

Sherlock’s voice brought John’s whirring mind to a halt. He refocused his gaze on Sherlock, and saw that the man was staring down the abyss at his feet.

John fortified himself for whatever Sherlock wanted, or had to say. He walked forward and stopped perfectly aligned at Sherlock’s side. When John looked up at him, Sherlock was still facing resolutely forward.

A light wind began to billow around the two men, causing some of the waterfall spray to mist their faces.

“I did hear you. You’re right.” Sherlock nodded towards the darkness. “I have to fall.” His voice was monotone, but that alone gave away how not ok he actually was.

It probably wasn’t such a bad thing that Sherlock obviously didn’t want to discuss the kiss at that moment.

There was jumping off a cliff to who knows where that needed doing.

“Yeah. You alright?” It was a stupid question; there was no way Sherlock could be alright. Still, John asked it, it seemed the right thing to do regardless.

Again, Sherlock didn’t respond.

However, John felt something brush against his hand.

With a slight frown, John looked down…Sherlock’s right hand was resting gently against his own, seeming…tentative.

John glanced up in surprise.

Now Sherlock looked at him, that same indefinable look in his eye, along with a challenge, and a plea.

John breathed in deep.

Alright then.

John gave him a reassuring smile, a smile that said “I’m here” and hoping his instincts for what Sherlock wanted, but for whatever reason didn’t feel comfortable voicing, weren’t wrong – John moved his hand and grasped Sherlock’s, giving it an encouraging squeeze, before letting it go.

Before his hand could fall away however, fingers substantially longer than his own quickly pulled his hand back.

There was no outward emotion on Sherlock’s face, but the light squeeze he gave John’s hand, fingers weaved through his, told John all he needed to know.

In a near synchronized movement, Sherlock and John faced the void again.

John felt surprisingly little fear, like a sane person would, at what they were about to do.

They each tightened their hold on the other briefly, before Sherlock let go, John’s hand clenched around empty air.

Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

Darkness surrounded them, this wasn’t a surprise. What was though was the thick, heavy fog, rising to their waists that seemed to glow entirely on its own.

At least, that’s how it seemed to John.

When the fog thinned out ahead of them, he noticed the light was actually coming from a single, aqua coloured candle; small, but it shone with light not even a room full of candles could produce, and yet it was still soft, and warm. It made the darkness around him feel not quite so oppressive.

The candle wasn’t the only thing in the circle of cleared fog.

A red dog with long, deep auburn fur glistened in the light of the candle at its side; casting a shadow long and far to the very tips of Sherlock and John’s feet.

There was no noise, and the dog was staring very intently at Sherlock. In a way that seemed very…human.

John had the sense that the dog was waiting for something.

John looked to Sherlock standing very close at his side.

The man was breathing heavily; his eyes clenched shut against the soft glare of the candle…and the dog.

Of which John had no doubt Sherlock saw.

“…Sherlock?” John whispered with slight hesitance and lightly touched Sherlock on the shoulder. The fog seemed to pulsate when John spoke.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open at John’s words and his touch; staring with red-rimmed, almost angry eyes at the shadow rippling at their feet.

“Sota rua, Irish Red Setter, a canine breed bred primarily for use as hunting dogs with first potential instances of the breed showing as early as 1570. A unique predisposition of the breed made them exceedingly common companions to soldiers, for a time, in war to support those wounded by physically harmful offensive Magick by either slowing down the progression of potentially fatal wounds by remaining close to those affected, or having a strong emotional bond to a person akin to a familiar bond that exists between siblings or…very close friends.” Sherlock rattled off facts like he was trying to distance himself from the situation by being objective, but his voice grew breathless and…sad, by the time he got to the end.

Sherlock clenched his eyes painfully shut before fluttering them open again; trying to stop the tears John could see building.

John remained quiet and steadfast beside the torn individual struggling so hard with himself.

It hurt John to see, he could scarcely imagine how Sherlock must feel – visibly trying so hard to hold in the waves of emotion John saw wracking his body.

“This is where it ends. I don’t…I don’t remember completely, but I got certain – pieces, up there on the cliff. If emotions could bring a man like I to such…broken desperation, do I truly want to remember?” Sherlock breathed deep and turned to face the dog bathed in candlelight.

The dark, rich brown eyes of the furry creature were watching the two of them silently, much less urgent than John had encountered previously.

Sherlock was obviously talking to himself, but John wouldn’t know how to answer that question even if he weren’t. If you had the option to forget your greatest pain, even if you are at risk of dying, would you do it? A part of John wanted to say yes, there are many things he wouldn’t be sorry to forget, but…

As John looked at Sherlock with tender eyes, observed the scene of the fog, candle and dog around him, he realized that if he were to forget his greatest pain he would no longer be who he was. Pain, just as much as passion, love and experience, made a person who they were.

The army. Losing friends, his parents, the once close relationship he had with his sister in childhood, attempting suicide…it all hurt. John’s reflective side may not see much past his own head, but if there was one thing John learned from years of being not just a soldier, but a Doctor too, that pain was just as much a precursor to an end as it was a beginning.

It was always there, but it wasn’t all there was.

It seemed a part of John had forgotten that.

“I know what I must do.”

John’s train of thought was broken when Sherlock spoke again. He watched as Sherlock began to walk, determinedly, yet tentatively, forward.

Sherlock looked afraid. John wanted to follow him, but everything inside and around him screamed he wasn’t supposed to.

John only hoped this wouldn’t end badly.

The fog slowly began to dissipate as Sherlock got closer to the dog, but the light only grew in its brightness.

John’s heart pounded with apprehension, hands clenched at his sides.

Sherlock kneeled in front of the dog, the dog then stood on all fours; tongue lolling out of its mouth, head titled at Sherlock.

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face from this position.

Be ok. Just…be ok.

He watched as Sherlock slowly reached out a trembling hand and stroked the dog’s head, its tail began to wag happily.

As Sherlock’s fingers came into deeper contact with the dog’s fur, his clothes rippled to a drier version of the 19th century clothing John saw him in on the cliff; his hair slicked back, and old coat splayed like a fan around his stooped form.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s utterance to the dog was quiet, but John heard it, and the deep, tragic sadness that accompanied them.

What happened to him? John’s heart ached.

To John’s slight shock, the dog shook its head and walked forward. Sherlock froze as the dog tucked his head into Sherlock’s neck.

The sob that escaped Sherlock had John wanting to cry, even more so when Sherlock threw his arms around the dog; clutching it close.

And then…it happened.

The luminosity of the candle grew, nearly blinding John in its strength; he held his hand up to block some of the light.

John’s mouth parted in shock as he observed the physical transformation of the two figures in front of him.

Sherlock’s adult, 19th century form, morphed, pulled and twisted into the vision of the little boy that talked with John in the room filled with water. He was still kneeling, with his arms enfolded around –

Another little boy. He looked to be approximately the same age, perhaps a little taller with skin more tanned and olive toned in comparison to Sherlock’s pale hue.

What hit John to his core though was the boy’s hair.

It was the same shade of red as the dog’s fur.

John fell to his knees as emotions, too many to name, overwhelmed him to the degree that he could barely breathe.

His forehead touched the unseen ground and he rolled onto his back, cursing, clutching his throat and stomach.

Then, just as quickly as the feeling came, it disappeared.

And John laid on his back, unable to move, as he watched the darkness swirl and transform around him to very real, crystal clear vibrant memories…

~

“Mr. Holmes! Greg! Are you alright?” Molly Hooper rushed forward as the two aforementioned men were thrown backwards off their chairs.

The two men groaned as they fumbled their way onto their feet.

“Yes, Molly, thanks.” Greg patted her gently on the shoulder.

Mr. Holmes straightened his suit jacket and nodded.

Molly sighed in relief. She then looked between the two in confusion, before she glanced at Sherlock and John in their respective beds.

Her eyes widened.

Mr. Holmes and Greg turned to look at the men lying prostrate before them.

The restraint which had been fashioned for this attempt was no longer there – the leather had dissolved and the crystal was singeing all the cloth surrounding it.

That wasn’t what had her staring at the two wounded men with tears in her eyes.

They were glowing.

And Sherlock was transforming before their very eyes; already his skin was less sallow, and he was breathing a bit faster.

“What happened?” She gasped, hope alight in her chest.

Greg glanced at Mr. Holmes with intense relief in his eyes before pulling up one of the fallen chairs and collapsing in it.

Mr. Holmes walked forward and rested his fingers on the edge of the bed containing his brother.

The outside observer would’ve called him collected and calm, but he was anything but.

“Progress.”

~

John was looking on at a scene that felt right out of a movie depicting winter during the Victorian era.

Only this wasn’t a movie, it was a memory.

And it belonged to Sherlock.

“Hey, Ratbag!”

A young boy, head to toe in winter wear indicative of the wealthy English of the time, slammed into the body of a younger child, maybe eight years old, knocking him over into a pile of snow.

They were on a well-worn footpath stretching along the edge of a snow-covered field. In the distance, houses and buildings with smoke rising from stone chimneys could be seen. Nearby, many groups of children were exiting onto the path from a neighbouring road frequented by horses and carriages. The closest building was a school, a large, dark and oppressive brick two-tiered place, with windows so high up the edges nearly reached the rim of the roof.

Children of the privileged were exiting there after the school day. For those who lived near they typically walked home; the path, and field, must be crossed in order to reach the homes of most of the boys, including the one struggling to dig himself out of the pile of snow that he sunk into when he’d been cruelly pushed over. His bag, large and made out of thick cloth trimmed with leather, had split open when he fell; its contents, including a slate, a set of used chalk stubs, paper, a small microscope and multiple slide,s were scattered all over the wet snow.

All of the boys at the school were too young to have presented with their Magick just yet. The little boy fighting back angry tears was the only one who possessed any power – even if it was minute due to his age, at this point he could only effect himself and small, inanimate objects, not other people.

Many children took advantage of that fact.

He tumbled out of the snow and landed roughly on his hands and knees. When he sat back on his heels, and furiously brushed away the cold snow obscuring his face; a young Sherlock Holmes was exposed.

“Fools, the lot of you!” Sherlock glared at the group of boys standing over him, headed by the one who pushed him over; Jonathan Abbot, his primary tormenter.

“I’d watch that mouth of yours if I were you. Freak.” Abbot scowled with angry eyes and kicked Sherlock over when he tried to pick up his fallen items. The other boys surrounding them laughed.

Sherlock got angrier when he realized there were tears welling in his eyes, but not at them. At himself for letting their cruel treatment of him hurt so much. Sherlock would never admit to anyone but himself how much the word of idiots made him want to cry as a young child.

Laughter continued when Sherlock stumbled his way to standing, trying to appear unaffected and strong, ignoring the pain in his side that flared as a result of the kick Abbot aimed at him.

He tried to pretend he wasn’t being stared at, wasn’t a source of amusement for these foolish boys. Sherlock walked a few steps towards his scattered items, intent on gathering them and getting out of here as soon as it allowed.

However, one of Abbot’s friends saw what he was doing and with mocking, baby faces and noises, starting to steal Sherlock’s various equipment from the ground before Sherlock could reach it.

The boy barely had his slate and bag in hand before Sherlock clenched an angry fist and glared, the items the offending boy was holding flew out of his hands and into Sherlock’s waiting ones.

This wasn’t the first time other children tried to steal his things, his incrementally increasing Magick power came in handy. At this time he wasn’t able to do a lot without draining himself.

Still, the laughter stopped and all watched Sherlock with mixtures of fascination and jealously as Sherlock focused on drawing his personal items to him; holding his bag open so they all settled in neatly.

Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be able to do that again for at least several hours.

He buttoned the bag closed, was about to drape it over his shoulder when Abbot quickly reached out and took it from him.

“That’s mine! Give it back!” Sherlock shouted and leaped at Abbot. He managed to grab onto one of the bag straps, but Abbot was physically stronger and their grappling lasted only a short time before he was pulling the bag away from Sherlock’s small hands, and that same friend from before forcefully pulled Sherlock away and pushed him over onto the dirty, snow path. Spitting ‘Freak’ as he left Sherlock trembling on the ground.

“Hm, is it? It’s in my hands not yours so, therefore, I declare ownership.” Abbot gleamed an unpleasant smile and stood over Sherlock, while his entourage snickered. “Sure you don’t want to steal this back from me with your…Magick, freak?” Abbot taunted as he hung the bag barely out of reach of the Sherlock lying prostrate on the ground. “Oh that’s right, you can’t can you?”

The snickering continued. Sherlock clenched his gloved hands into fists and deathly glowered at the boy.

“Your brother recently returned from overseas in America, while your parents are exceedingly pleased about this you aren’t, your life has been spent lived in his greater, confident shadow while you stood ignored by your mother, father and the rest of your family. You are unimportant, ordinary, and indulge your inadequacy by cowardly torturing children younger than you thinking it makes you appear strong to your idiotic peers, when really you’re weaker than them all.” Sherlock recited his spiteful soliloquy at surprising lighting speed for a boy his age.

In the not too far distance, the last group of boys were exiting the school; half of them going towards waiting carriages, while the other half made their way over to the path, and subsequently the commotion had drawn more of a crowd.

The young boy above him was shaking in anger, and Sherlock noted with sick satisfaction that his eyes were rimming red with tears.

His followers were stock still behind him, unsure what to do next.

Abbot suddenly wailed in anger and began beating Sherlock with his own bag.

Sherlock felt bruises and small bloody wounds begin sprouting all over his body and face. He automatically curled into a fetal position to protect himself. Still he found he wasn’t sorry for what he said. The idiot deserved it.

His friends soon joined in. While the bystanders either cheered on, walked away or stared in horror unsure what to do.

Sherlock couldn’t contain his cry of pain and reached down to his leg. Unfortunately, this exposed his face and another of Abbot’s friends punched him in the nose.

The new group of boys arrived.

“Hey!” A new voice shouted and a young boy pushed through the group of children.

The new arrival temporarily halted the abuse Sherlock was taking. Abbot and his friends turned to stare at this new boy.

And he was, quite literally new; younger than Abbot yet nearly as tall, his bright red hair made him stand out. Sherlock hadn’t met him before, but he knew that this boy and his family, the Burds, moved to the area a mere fortnight ago a few houses down from Sherlock’s, unconventional and Jewish they were met with scorn by many of the bustling town. Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about that last, all he cared about at the moment was whether this boy was going to be yet another tormenter in his life.

“What do you want ginger?” Abbot glared, the tears in his eyes countered the imposing figure he was trying to portray.

The young boy seemed to hesitate and gulp nervously at the sight of four, obviously strong group of boys staring him down. But he bravely straightened his posture, and adjusting his bag over the camel colour of his coat, he walked right over and barrelled into the group of boys, pushing them away from the bleeding Sherlock.

The shock of the action delayed the reaction of the group of boys who stumbled back at the surprising force this other boy exuded.

He stood protectively in front of Sherlock.

“Leave him alone!” The young boy shouted, his knees bent and hands held in fists in front of his face.

Sherlock deduced he knew boxing, likely taught by an older family member – probably a brother. Mostly though, Sherlock was staring at this strange boy; too shocked to deduce anything further.

No one, no one had ever protected him like this before.

Sherlock was torn between not trusting the action and feeling grateful for the bravery of an unknown child. Even at eight this wasn’t his first broken nose, the world had been beating on him from practically the moment he could talk.

Abbot laughed, he still held Sherlock’s bag tightly in his hand.

“Why? You think I’m scared of an imp like you?” He looked around the defensive stance of the young Burd, and smiled sickly at Sherlock as he waved the bag high.

Sherlock was clutching his nose and staring at Abbot with narrowed eyes.

“And I have Magick you wish you had, idiot!” Sherlock yelled through his pain.

The young Burd turned to glare at Sherlock. “You’re. Not. Helping.” He mouthed out of the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but remained silent.

“You-” Abbot’s face twisted in anger and he charged.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open in shock and he watched with wide eyes as the little boy defending him against the greater force in front of him, vanished into a pale, yellow smoke.

There was a collective gasp. The smoke took advantage of their distraction and weaved around the group of boys, knocking them over and finally zoomed at Abbot. The latter screamed, dropped the bag and started running before the sun-like smoke could reach him.

In fact, even those who were merely watching began quickly leaving in fear. Soon, Sherlock was alone with the swirling smoke – more like steam actually.

The innocent fascination of his child mind was spellbound by what he just witnessed. No traces of fear were present.

The Burd family must be Warlocks, except this boy’s mother – she must be fully human, it would explain his uniquely human appearance.

Only when the last boy was running away did the smoke-steam ripple into the appearance of the red-headed boy once more.

“You better run!” He yelled with a shaking fist.

He then huffed and turned to Sherlock, who had pushed himself to a half-sitting position, too in pain to go all the way.

The young boy picked up Sherlock’s bag and fell to his knees in front of him.

“Here.” The young boy handed Sherlock the bag.

Sherlock stared at him in confusion, trying to search for a deception. Maybe he wanted him alone before torturing him?

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Burd insisted, shaking the bag at Sherlock.

The young boy didn’t answer for a moment, he reached into his pocket with a frown and pulled out a blue handkerchief and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t take it at first, again, not trusting just yet. The young boy rolled his eyes, stepped closer and pressed the cloth to Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock flinched and backed away, holding the cloth to his nose himself.

The other boy was still standing in front of him.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, my Mum and your Mum go the same club or something.”

Sherlock knew that. “That doesn’t mean you know me.”

The other boy jumped a bit on his feet with an even bigger smile.

Seriously, why did he smile so much?

“I’d like to. I’m Admon Alexander Burd.” He held a hand towards Sherlock, very much the proper gentleman.

Sherlock glanced down at his hand. He tried not to feel hopeful that this boy meant what he said. Mycroft would call it a weakness to want the approval of others, but Sherlock found he wanted to know what it felt like to have a friend – and not be ridiculed for once. Maybe it would be an exercise in futility, but Sherlock did like to experiment.

Sherlock reached out his free hand and grasped the boy’s hand with a proper shake. Admon seemed inordinately pleased.

Sherlock realized that, for different reasons, they were both outcasts.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Admon nodded. “Pleasure to meet you. May I call you Billy?”

“No.” Sherlock yanked his hand away.

Admon frowned, but shrugged it off. “My house is on the way to yours. I’ll walk with you.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He started walking, if a little slower than normal, and just like he said he would, Admon followed at his side.

Sherlock’s life changed that day.

~ 20 yrs later, 1882.

Both 28, Sherlock and Admon had remained best-friends for the past 20 years, though each went to different universities for their undergraduate degrees; Sherlock went to Cambridge and Admon went to Oxford. They both decided to pursue further education, Sherlock – sciences, and Admon – Politics. Admon once again was going to his alma mater and Sherlock with him. Although technically it was the other way around, since Sherlock started a year before Admon did.

They were visiting home for the latter half of the summer, and hadn’t seen each for some months; Admon touring Europe with his family before going back to Oxford, and Sherlock visiting his grandmother in France before he returned to Oxford for a second year.

In many ways, they were still children in their behaviour towards each other – from knowing each other as young as they did. Mycroft sighed and called them ridiculous, both sets of parents found them adorable. Sherlock called them ridiculous too; being more reserved and dedicated to intellectual pursuits more so than anything else, but inside he was always more pleased with the attention Admon gave them than he let on.

Which was why, Sherlock tolerated the following action.

When Admon exited the carriage in front of Sherlock’s home wearing a long, flared caramel coloured coat and hat, ginger beard gleaming in the sun, and saw Sherlock inspecting the wounded bark of a nearby tree (taking samples and placing them in secure containers) he ran and embraced Sherlock tightly. To the outside observer, Sherlock appeared exasperated and merely tolerant of the overt display of affection, but Mycroft – who was sitting primly on a chair in the middle of their garden, also home for a few weeks from his work in London – saw right through his brother’s façade.

Mycroft was uncertain whether his brother realized it himself, but whatever feelings he held towards his friend had begun to change over the years into something Mycroft was genuinely worried would cause them all much trouble, most of all to Sherlock, who Mycroft knew held little interest in the fairer sex.

The abruptness of Admon’s laughing embrace caused Sherlock to drop his samples, thankfully the instinctive reaction of his Magick allowed them to float gently in the air.

Admon sighed dramatically and cuffed Sherlock teasingly around the ear. “Oh Sherlock, don’t overwhelm me with that much information at once, it’s not like I haven’t seen you for half a year.”

Sherlock glared at his friend and waved a hand, which caused Admon’s hat to rise several feet above his head.

“Hey!” Admon tried jumping up to reach it. Sherlock smirked and only caused it to float higher.

Admon could easily get it, they both knew it, but this byplay was part of their game.

Sherlock sighed and allowed the horrendous hat to fall into his friends waiting hands.

“Thanks.” Admon smiled a small smile down at the hat, brushing off the dirt that the road had dusted onto it on the long journey here. “I have missed you, you know.” He replaced the hat on top his head with a smile and looked at Sherlock.

Admon had grown taller than Sherlock in their teens, his ginger beard a permanent fixture on his face as soon as he could grow one.

It was only the furthest corners of Sherlock’s unending mind that Sherlock could admit that his friend had grown into an exceedingly attractive man.

Sherlock couldn’t care less what narrow society believed, but such thoughts were dangerous. And…he cared what Admon thought, which was why he would never share that part of himself with his best-friend.

Sherlock nodded a bit off to the side.

“Likewise.” Sherlock admitted a bit quiet. He reached into midair and caught the samples of diseased tree bark he’d collected. “I see you met a new lady friend in your travels.” He observed offhandedly.

Admon grinned and leaned against the fence surrounding Sherlock’s family home.

“Oh really? Tell me, Genius, how you know that.” He crossed his arms and legs casually.

Unlike practically everyone, Admon was always amused by Sherlock’s scarily accurate deductions – but not in a dismissive or mean way.

Sherlock snorted and gave him a look that said ‘do I really need to?’ before gathering his materials together that were resting at his feet. He didn’t look at Admon as he spoke.

“Not only are you exceedingly more buoyant than your usual, annoyingly cheerful self, the powder you used to obscure the bruise on your neck made by lip suction has begun to fade away onto the silk of your scarf, the discolouration indicates it happened recently, perhaps on the boat during the crossing to England. This was not one of your usual dalliances-”

“Hey!”

“-You felt a genuine connection with this lady, and were pleased to discover that she must live in London close to Oxford where we will be residing, gathering by the card bordered by violet flowers sticking out of your coat pocket on which her name and address are likely written. Obviously really.”

Sherlock shrugged, uncaring and sounding nothing other than bored. The way he avoided Admon’s eyes though told those watching, namely Mycroft, that he was more affected by his observations than he appeared to be.

Admon didn’t notice. He laughed and clapped his hands.

“Absolutely brilliant. You are correct of course; with luck I’ll introduce you to her in a few weeks. Her name is Sophia. I told her all about you.”

Sherlock was walking down the long, wide path to the large house, Admon at his side.

“Did you?”

Admon nodded. “Mhm, she’s very curious.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock sincerely hoped he would stop talking, soon.

“She’s very intelligent, I think you’ll approve.”

Sherlock adjusted the strap of his sample bag as they reached the double doors leading into the house.

“We’ll see.”

“Hey.” Admon reached out to stop Sherlock from opening the door. When Sherlock looked at him, his eyes were gentle and serious. “Try and be kind, alright?”

Sherlock groaned inwardly.

“I’m not a kind person.”

Admon raised an eyebrow.

“You’re kind to me.”

Sherlock looked affronted.

“No I’m not.”

Admon pinched the base of nose before staring at Sherlock. “Why you try to perpetuate the persona of an unfeeling monster when I’ve known you since you were eight and clearly know you better than you know yourself is beyond me, but alright – fine, hypothetically you’re a mean cruel individual, just try not to send Sophia screaming in the other direction when you meet her.”

“I’ll try.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he meant them. Admon was his friend, Sherlock may fail in that department but the man had yet to abandon him and his unusual personality yet despite many opportunities to do so.

Admon grinned. “That’s all I ask. You know I’ll always be your friend, right? No matter what lady I am with.” Admon clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

Right. Friend. Ladies.

Sherlock tried not to let that bitterness inside him grow.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know. How could he? Even with a friend as dedicated as Admon maintaining relationships was something Sherlock was still very much a novice in. He just knew he would make a mistake eventually that would push Admon away forever; Sherlock’s character was not exactly conducive to being personable.

Not like Admon, who was a charming, friendly man to the extreme.

The stark difference in their personalities had Sherlock feeling afraid, and wishing his heart was just a little bid colder.

So Sherlock forced a smile, and patted Admon’s hand on his shoulder. “I know. Now move you imbecile, I wish to show you what I’ve been working on the past several weeks.”

Sherlock could tell Admon didn’t buy his carefree attitude, but he didn’t call Sherlock on it. For which Sherlock was grateful.

He was feeling genuinely proud at sharing with Admon his new project, categorizing the various types of tobacco ash.

The butler standing directly by the inside of the door took the coats and hats of both men, before replacing them on the gilded hooks at his side.

In a few minutes, Admon and Sherlock were in the room of the latter; a chaotic, yet organized mess of science equipment and many, many books.

Sherlock put his sample bag off to the side for now and moved to retrieve his intended box and notebook from one of his many sets of cupboards. Behind Admon roamed the room, taking in what was new, and what wasn’t.

“You really have been working haven’t you? I tell you, you need to relax on occasion.” Admon sighed with fond exasperation and started flipping through a pile of dictionaries, encyclopaedias and several books on apiology atop Sherlock’s desk.

“I find my work very relaxing.” Sherlock countered, half buried in the messy cupboard. He knew it was here somewhere…

“I know you do, but it wouldn’t do any harm to get yourself a lady friend.”

Sherlock tensed. Admon didn’t notice.

“I beg to differ. They are a distraction, and not my milieu.” Not the full truth, but Admon couldn’t ever know that.

Admon sighed. “Whatever makes you happy. I worry about you being as isolated as you are.”

He may be pushy and wanting to be overly involved in Sherlock’s personal life, but in the end, unlike Mycroft and his parents, Admon held no expectations of Sherlock having to be anything other than himself.

Even if Sherlock could never be himself completely, he appreciated that of Admon none-the-less. Maybe he’ll tell him some day.

“I am happy.” Sherlock muttered, and he was…for the most part.

“Then I’ll speak no more on the matter.”

Sherlock knew this was a lie, but still well-meaning.

…aha! Sherlock found the box he was looking for; containing the sample boxes of ash he’d collected the many genres of tobacco ash in. Considering Sherlock’s penchant for pipe smoking, he felt it ridiculous he hadn’t pursued this potential avenue of knowledge before.

“Found it!” He turned around, needed items in hand, and saw Admon standing by Sherlock’s bed; staring wide-eyed at on open book on his nightstand.

Oh no.

Panic and something very much like fear flooded Sherlock’s body. The box and papers fell from Sherlock’s frozen fingers. He was still as a statue, but inside he was cursing and chastising himself for forgetting to hide the book like he had been every time he read it for the past year. Even his Magick was whirring in panic, causing various objects around him to shake.

It was a dangerous book for him to have.

“Ad-Admon…” Sherlock attempted to speak, but instead of sounding in control and calm, he sounded every bit the panicky fool he felt.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should be above all this!

Admon reached out, as though to touch the book, but changed his mind at the last second. He turned around to face Sherlock with an unreadable expression.

“What is this?”

It bothered Sherlock more than he could express that he couldn’t gauge Admon’s tone and meaning, was he judging? Hating him? Asking out of curiosity?

Sherlock didn’t know! And that made this so much worse. He couldn’t look at Admon, and see the disgust in his eyes, what he must be thinking of Sherlock now; sick, immoral, not human.

“The Sins of the Cities of the Plain is the first exclusively homoerotic novel to be published in English-”

“I gathered that. I mean, what are you doing with it?”

He heard Admon step closer, slowly. Sherlock found himself frozen, barely breathing. He could try and explain it away, and maybe even succeed, but…he couldn’t, he just, he couldn’t.

“I am reading it.” Sherlock’s voice was shaky at best. He held his head high, clasped his hands tightly behind his back and stared at faded red wallpaper across the room, away from Admon.

Admon inhaled sharply. “Sherlock, are you…a sodomite?”

Was he disgusted? Sherlock couldn’t tell.

Sherlock flinched. “Homosexual is the term, and-” Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “Yes, I am.”

There it was, the hammer on his coffin – perhaps literally. Twenty years of friendship whirled down the proverbial drain because of Sherlock’s perceived abnormality –

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

…What?

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open in surprise and for the first time in several minutes he looked at his friend.

Sherlock laughed bitterly and began pacing on the spot, running his hands roughly through his hair; dislodging the smoothness of it, released his natural curl.

“I am a man sexually attracted to other men in a country where it is illegal and viewed as a sickness by masses of idiots in the name of religious doctrine, why would I tell anyone?” Sherlock walked up to Admon and roared the words in his face. “Tell me. How could I tell the only friend I’ve ever had, that I am what so many people hate.”

Admon didn’t flinch. He stared Sherlock down.

“I thought you didn’t care what people think.”

Sherlock huffed and resting one hand on his face; covering his eyes. “I care what you think.” It was perhaps the most vulnerable Sherlock had ever allowed himself to feel, let alone express. And it was acid on top of many wounds this entire thing gave him.

“Sherlock-”

Sherlock backed away quickly from the hand that reached out, pitying, to touch him. Much like he did with the handkerchief moment at their first meeting.

“I…do not want your pity.” Sherlock spat, breathing heavily, hand still firm on his face. “If you valued any part of our friendship, please, I beg you to leave and not say anything.”

“No.”

Sherlock dropped his hand. “What?”

Admon was still standing there, his arms crossed, utterly determined. Again, it reminded Sherlock of the first day they met.

Sherlock’s heart ached.

Why did this have to happen to him? Why?

“I said, no. You listen to me Sherlock Holmes, and for once do not interrupt.”

Admon strode forward, and grasped Sherlock’s hands in his own. To Sherlock’s utter astonishment, Admon leaned forward and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to move even if he tried.

What was happening?

“I can’t say this is something I expected or that I understand, but, you are my best-friend, if this is who you are, I have no choice but to continue loving you for it. You can help make me understand. And I promise, I won’t tell anyone.” There was something shaky in Admon’s voice, despite his obvious determination, something he wasn’t saying.

However, Sherlock could feel this was no lie.

As he had learned over the years, Admon was a terrible liar.

He gasped in relief and did something he hadn’t done since they were children. He threw his arms around his friend, the only person who now truly knows him, and doesn’t hate him for it.

Admon grabbed him tightly back, the skin of his thumb brushed gently against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock allowed himself this one indulgence, he knew he would never get anything more, and squeezed that little bit tighter.

It was simultaneously the best and most agonizing moment of his life thus far.

Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

Chapter 11

His Greatest Pain

~ 4 Months later. 1882.

Sherlock hated Sophia.

He could never tell Admon that. He still suspected his friend knew though, it wasn’t exactly new though, Sherlock didn’t like anyone – except Admon, and he supposed his parents, he barely liked his brother on a good day.

Even with the knowledge of Sherlock Admon had held for months now, Sherlock saw that his friend had no idea where Sherlock’s true hatred of Sophia stemmed from. Something Sherlock was perfectly alright with not changing, he told himself. His friend was happy, Sherlock would rather keep whatever inconvenient feelings he had to himself than disrupt Admon’s happiness.

Perhaps this proved how far gone Sherlock was.

Objectively, Sherlock could acknowledge that Sophia was a reasonably intelligent woman of Spanish decent who didn’t take Sherlock’s attitude personally, objectively Sherlock could say that were he so inclined and Admon wasn’t in a courtship with her, he may just find her interesting enough himself.

Still, Sherlock hated her.

It was childish, but he did.

Sherlock could see in Mycroft’s eyes that he knew Sherlock’s true feelings, in all respects. And Sherlock supposed he was grateful for Mycroft’s distant acceptance of the situation. He hated Mycroft too though, for knowing anything at all.

Sherlock hated himself too, for being so reduced by feelings this way.

Sherlock was standing in the drawing room doorway of his and Admons apartment in London, a short walk to Oxford University.

Admon and Sophia were sat on the sofa against an old, yellowed window. Admon was showing off his ability to half form by turning his arms into the sunlight yellow smoke-steam of his Warlock capable form. And she was expressing, with admirable control, her own ability to form ice crystals with her hands; her dark, walnut coloured hair and round eyes reflecting in the glass-like structures on her hands.

Admon smiled.

They looked happy.

Domestic. Boring.

Sherlock hated it.

Before either of them could see him he exited the apartment and walked a long, hard distance to a place that was fast becoming a second, perhaps seedier home.

An Opium den.

~ 5 yrs later. 1887.

Admon and Sophia were getting married. An amalgamation of rather progressive individuals designed a ceremony expressing both their faiths, Judaism and Protestant Christianity.

Sherlock helped, because he was Admon’s groomsman and Admon asked him too.

They hadn’t been spending as much time together in recent years, but even with his dedication to his fiancé and soon to be wife, Admon made time for Sherlock.

At times it felt to Sherlock more like a consolation than an actual want of Admons, but he supposed that was probably jealously speaking on his part.

It may have been pathetic, but Sherlock was grateful for any time he could get with him. And perhaps, he could also admit, that he had warmed to Sophia somewhat. She was very attentive without being overbearing, and never treated Sherlock like a lesser person.

Especially since Sherlock was fairly certain she was fully aware of Sherlock’s disposition and feelings towards her intended. He had no doubt Admon would never have told her, she was simply that observant. They never had a real conversation about it, but Sherlock could see it in her face when she would look at him when Admon wasn’t around.

It wasn’t pity, but it was sympathy.

Sherlock hated both equally.

Still, she never reported him for her suspicions and he couldn’t hate her for that.

Sherlock supposed Admon could’ve chosen a worse life companion.

As an honoured individual, Admon and Sophia wanted Sherlock to stand under the canopy with them.

Another reason why Sherlock suspected Sophia knew was that initially, she tried to dissuade Admon from asking him to be his best man. Sherlock suspected this wasn’t because she felt threatened but out of consideration for his own feelings, it was pointless though. Sherlock was going to feel broken-hearted no matter what.

And as he watched the man he’d been in love with for years, and the woman who’d known that man for far less time, get married beneath and outdoor canopy, under the gaze of a Rabbi and Priest, Sherlock knew he was wrong.

He wasn’t broken-hearted.

He was eviscerated.

It took every scrap of will he possessed to not break down right there. He would not humiliate himself because of his despicable emotions.

When they kissed, and Admon crushed the glass with his foot, Sherlock almost wanted to laugh at the unintended metaphor of his own heart in that moment.

He was crushed, but he had no choice but to be there.

Because Admon was his dearest friend, and despite Sherlock’s shortcomings in his knowledge and expression of societal custom and behaviour, he knew that being there for his friend on his wedding was more important than lounging in some boat hole Opium drug den, or injecting himself with morphine, sometimes cocaine when the mood struck, and feeling sorry for himself.

Burying himself in his work only helped marginally.

“Masel Tov!” Everyone screamed.

Admon laughed, hugged Sophia tightly and kissed her passionately on the lips.

Sherlock tried not to flinch.

When he let go of her, he turned around and embraced Sherlock. Sherlock hesitantly reciprocated the motion, and tried not to ignore the sluggish pounding in his chest.

“I know all these people must be bothersome for you, but still, thank-you my friend for being here.” Admon said in his ear, patting his back once more before pulling away and saying something quick to the Rabbi.

I would brave crowds of the idiotic masses if it could’ve been you and me under this canopy. Sherlock cursed himself for the pathetic nature of his mind at that moment.

He was struck though when Sophia came up to him in that moment and threw her arms around his neck.

He didn’t hug her back and merely tolerated the contact.

“I’m sorry. I want you to know I mean that. My brother is like you and I love him more than anything.” Sophia’s whispered words sent rivulets of shock through Sherlock.

He’d suspected she likely knew a family member, whether they were ostracized or close was up for debate, who shared his predilection, but Sherlock never supposed that she would openly say anything to him about it.

Sherlock gulp, and lightly touched her waist with his fingers.

“Make him happy.” He clenched his eyes shut and gave into his weakness long enough to let a single tear escape.

“I will, for both of us. I know I may not be your favourite person, but should you ever wish to talk. I will listen.” Her words were heartrendingly sincere. Sophia lightly patted the back of his head in a way a mother would similarly do to a child.

Sherlock never intended to take her up on that offer, and she likely knew it, the fact that she even made the offer though…Sherlock was shaken.

Sherlock didn’t know if he could hold up that promise, but for his own sake and Admons, he would try. He felt the cold metal of her wedding ring like a hot brand on the side of his neck.

Sherlock nodded. Sophia leaned up and kissed him lightly on the cheek before turning away to be with her new husband.

Against his wishes, Sherlock stopped hating her in that moment.

Sherlock…he just felt sad.

~ 3yrs later. 1890

This room had become as familiar to him as his own home. Despite the dangerous uncertainty, and rampant poverty of the Whitechapel district, Sherlock rarely felt as at peace anywhere else – here, he was entirely alone and his mind quietened. A favour he had fulfilled involving the retrieval of a stolen family heirloom pendant gave him the privilege of a room to himself, and complete discretion.

In recent years, Sherlock had more often begun to use his unique abilities, both intellectual and Magickal, in the pursuit of solving mysteries, anything to alleviate the crushing boredom, and growing disconnect between him and his best-friend, whom he’d once been closer to than anyone.

Sherlock knew it was, if not entirely, largely his own fault. He built this prison around himself by not restraining his heart properly, and he had no choice but to live with that mistake.

On their wedding day, Sophia had asked Sherlock not to pull away.

While Sherlock had not indubitably promised anything, he felt like he’d broken a vow none-the-less by making up reasonable excuses for not visiting Admon and his family, until it got to the point when he hadn’t seen them for months.

Lots of people have families, wives, and…children. It was the pursuit of any normal Englishman.

Admon’s son was born five months ago.

Admon and Sophia named him William Burd, and asked Sherlock to be the Godfather.

Sherlock accepted. What else could he do?

However, before he could break down and utterly humiliate himself over the fact that the man he loved named his child after him, Sherlock made an excuse he wouldn’t remember later and left their home.

Sherlock didn’t return to his own apartment for two days. Mycroft had to drag him, literally, out of a bolthole near the docks, barely conscious, flooded with opium.

Mycroft didn’t tell Admon where he’d been; apparently his friend had approached Mycroft at his own home out of worry when he couldn’t find Sherlock.

Sherlock’s exit from his home hadn’t been as smooth as he’d thought.

Sherlock was grateful to his brother for not telling Admon. His friend knew he struggled with addiction, but Sherlock hadn’t been in that dark a place for years. Sherlock found he didn’t want Admon’s opinion of him to diminish, if it still existed at all.

And so, there Sherlock was – in his assigned room in some dilapidated building off a random street nearly canopied over by cloth and rotting wood hanging out of windows, laying on a mattress in the windowless room that reeked of vomit, blood, piss and all manner of bodily fluids, a needle; empty, laid on the floor just out of reach of Sherlock’s long fingers. His shirt sleeves were rolled passed his inner elbow, exposing the mottled skin and recent injection wounds indicating routine drug abuse.

The haze of release filled his brain.

The sheer relief of the action made Sherlock want to cry.

Sherlock knew he’d overdosed – albeit not a deadly amount - the minute he’d made the familiar action of needle to arm, in all likelihood he would fall unconscious and wake up on a random street corner robbed of all his possessions.

In the state Sherlock was in, he found he cared very little.

He also found himself wishing he were a child again, something Sherlock never thought he would do.

He was miserable as a child…but Admon was his. No one else’s. Yes, Sherlock was miserable – but that wasn’t all he was.

At eight, he’d accepted the possibility of a lack of friendship his entire life, when he discovered that perhaps such a thing wasn’t out of his grasp – he wanted to hold onto it and never let go. Sherlock didn’t want to share. He knew it was selfish, but feelings…they’re overwhelming, and not easily divorced from. This was largely why Sherlock was keeping his distance.

If he stayed to close to Admon, happy Admon in his domestic wife loving, child-rearing bliss, Sherlock didn’t trust himself to keep it together and ruin everything permanently.

No, things were better this way. They had to be.

Sherlock wished he truly were a Sociopath.

Cold sweats, and raging fever had Sherlock twitching and shivering on the thin, uncomfortable mattress. He knew the excessive drug use was making him sick, Sherlock didn’t care.

He didn’t have the energy to care; the liquid salvation soared through his brain and slowed everything down, made everything…stop. Feelings were a minor consideration when he was high.

Sherlock may have been there for hours or days, his perception of time was often skewed in this state, but eventually a commotion disturbed the relaxing gloom of his the room, lit only by the glow of a slowly diminishing candle, he was in.

He heard a door burst open and slam against the wall, Sherlock flinched involuntarily at the sound that fired like a gun in his head.

“Oh, Sherlock…”

No. No no no.

Sherlock knew that voice. He shouldn’t be here; no one knew he was here except…Mycroft.

Damn Mycroft.

Sherlock tensed, trying to stop the shivers wracking his body.

“Go away Admon.” Sherlock grumbled; voice rough and dry from lack of use. He’d been there a while then.

“You should know I seldom listen to you.”

Admon’s voice was overly cheery, in a way it often got when he was masking worry – this time it was at Sherlock’s expense.

Sherlock never wanted him, of all people, to see him like this.

It made him feel small, and ashamed.

“Go.” Sherlock tried, desperate. Just leave.

“No.” Admon stood firmly in Sherlock’s line of vision.

Sherlock didn’t have the energy to lift up his head, all he saw were Admon’s boots – encrusted with dried dirt, mud and excrement. He had been walking in the streets for a long time.

Why?

“Why are you here?” Sherlock bit out. He clenched his useless hands around the worn material of the mattress beneath him.

Sherlock still didn’t look, but he could feel Admon was shaking. Anger? Sherlock wouldn’t blame him.

Why Admon felt he had to take precious time away from his family to find Sherlock, he had no clue.

Sherlock never asked to be found.

“I thought you quit.” Admon’s voice was filled with barely restrained anger. He walked around Sherlock, and settled on the edge of his mattress along Sherlock’s back; sitting with a tense hand resting near the back of Sherlock’s neck; Sherlock could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

Sherlock felt a deep need to hit something.

He didn’t respond to Admon’s statement, it wasn’t really a question.

“You should go home.” Sherlock fluttered his eyes hazily, and tried to squirm away from Admon so close to him; his presence hurt in ways Sherlock could never fully describe.

“Not unless you come with me, and get some help. Don’t you know what this could do to you?” That anger was coming through in bits now, it took a lot of Admon’s temper to unleash – being a normally blasé individual.

He must be truly angry.

Yes, Sherlock knew. It could kill him, enough prolonged use of opioid use could lead to loss of Magickal control, and in someone like Sherlock that would be especially dangerous.

“I don’t care. Go home, to your family.” Family came out sounding much nastier than Sherlock intended.

“Damn it Sherlock you are my family! Me being married and a father doesn’t change that!” Admon yelled and stood up. “I won’t stand by and watch you slowly kill yourself. You’ve been missing for three days! Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? How worried all of us have been? I’ve been out there, searching for you for so...” Admon sighed. “Have I…Have I done something wrong? These past years, something’s changed, I don’t…You mean more to me than you could possibly know, my oldest and dearest friend, I can’t lose you – especially to yourself.” His voice became progressively sadder as he spoke. “I want to fix this. Tell me what to do.”

To Sherlock’s horror, he could hear tears in Admon’s voice. Never, not once has Sherlock ever seen or heard Admon cry.

You did nothing. It is all my doing. You don’t need to fix anything. Dear, dear Admon…

Sherlock felt sick, frozen and unable to talk.

A few moments passed. Admon exhaled a long breath and resumed sitting behind Sherlock on the mattress.

Sherlock was barely holding himself together, weakened further by the overdosed drug use. He couldn’t talk, his mouth felt enormously heavy and Sherlock was sure he would pass out any moment.

And then, Sherlock felt Admon change position until…he was lying down on his side along Sherlock’s back, enclosing his arms around Sherlock’s middle from behind.

His arms were shaking.

Sherlock held his breath. They hadn’t done this since they were children during the cold winter months; this…this wasn’t something two grown men did.

What was Admon doing?

Sherlock tried to speak, but ended up coughing instead.

“Shh, shh, don’t try to speak. I contacted a friend of mine, a Doctor, when I realized where you were. He’s on his way.”

Sherlock grumbled. Fantastic, more witnesses.

Admon giggled. “I know, I know. You’ll be alright though, that is what matters more. At least to me.” He breathed in deeply, buried his face against Sherlock’s neck and exhaled. “Will you stay with us, please? I want to see you spend time with my son. Only for a little while I promise, then you can run off and do what your adventurous heart so desires.” Admon stretched out a trembling hand and firmly grabbed the hand Sherlock had splayed out next to his needle, pulling it in and tight against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock tensed. What is he…Admon is a physically affectionate person by nature, but this was going above and beyond what he was accustomed to.

The only time Sherlock had seen Admon react similarly to this was when his mother was dying; desperate, clingy, angry and sad.

But Sherlock wasn’t dying.

Maybe if Sherlock weren’t on the verge of falling asleep he would be able to deduce Admon’s behaviour more thoroughly, as such he was barely able to keep conscious.

Even as drugged out as Sherlock was, he disliked feeling confused and off balance.

“Remember when we met?”

Of course I do.

“I treasure that memory. My only regret is I didn’t know you before that day. Oh, all of the boys talked about you, called you all manner of unpleasant euphemisms. It wasn’t until I saw you glaring, brave and bleeding in the face of cowardice that I noticed you and knew how wrong they were. My life changed that day, and if there has ever been a day since, that I made you feel like you were no longer important, than I am sorry.”

Silent tears fell down Sherlock’s face, his heart pounded loudly in chest. Even if he could talk, what could he possibly say to that?

Sherlock wanted to curl up and disappear forever. He has made so many mistakes, not the least of which was falling in love with the man holding him so tightly, Sherlock felt like he’d violated him in some way.

He doesn’t deserve this.

“No, don’t…” Sherlock struggled, but barely got out two words before he was coughing again.

Admon didn’t speak, just held him tighter as the coughing subsided.

His friend moved his head to the side, so his cheek rested on Sherlock’s bare skin; Admon released a shuddering sigh.

“I’m sorry, I’m…I’m sorry that I couldn’t do this, I – I couldn’t. You are so much braver than I.” Admon spoke like a broken man, exhaling broken breaths against his neck.

Sherlock’s heart was racing – although that might’ve been the morphine.

What did Admon mean? Couldn’t what? Why would -

And then…Sherlock felt it. The smallest, lightest pressure of lips and touch of beard against the back of his neck, and a last mumbled ‘I’m sorry’.

Sherlock cried. They spoke no more.

For a short, shameful, moment, Sherlock let himself enjoy how close the man he loved was. The feelings he felt at that moment were the bitterest, and the sweetest.

It helped that now he knew, at least Admon felt a little of the same – he wasn’t entirely alone.

Sherlock could live with the tragic reality of their circumstance.

~ 5 yrs later. 1895.

Within the space of one year, everything changed again – in the worst way possible.

Sophia, Admon, and their child, William, were infected with ‘Vibrio cholerae’ due to a recent outbreak in their area of London.

Cholera.

Sherlock, being an Enchanter, was immune to the bacteria – as were many others.

Miraculously, Admon survived. Sherlock knew that he would rather have died however, than to live and see Sophia, and his son, succumb to the disease.

Sherlock was devastated, more so than he thought he would be – and not just as a result of being there to witness Admon’s subsequent grief. Watching William grow from infant to child was an experience Sherlock never thought he would have, and he became close with his godson – who shared a predilection to mysteries and the sciences much like Sherlock himself at that age.

And after a time, Sophia became a friend.

Whatever feelings and circumstance had driven Sherlock from his family (if not in blood, than in bond) when William was little – after the moment Sherlock and Admon shared in that bolthole - settled to more…manageable levels.

Sherlock may have been heartbroken yes, but he still had the love of good people and if anything, they grew closer than ever. The love of the man he loved so dearly made the pain Sherlock experienced worth it in the end.

Only for all of that to be torn away, in the most cruel way imaginable.

Sherlock did everything in his power to save them, Mycroft as well, used all of his knowledge and connections to find the most prestigious and advanced medical personnel and practices at the time.

It saved Admon, but not his family.

Sherlock had been relieved when Admon overcame the worst, but was devastated by the loss of Sophia and William.

Admon, however…Admon broke. He died the day his wife and child did, if not in body than in spirit, Sherlock saw it in the brown eyes that no longer shone with life.

He held him as Admon cried, wailed and cursed God for taking away his wife and child.

It only took two weeks before his body followed the state of his heart.

Admon’s Magick lost all control, turned on him and acted like a debilitating poison to his entire system. Rehabilitation and healing for that type of Magickal damage was significant even back then, but there was still a lot that was mysterious and unknown. In the end, no matter what they did, nothing helped.

Mycroft tried to tell Sherlock it was because Admon didn’t want it to. Sherlock called him a fool and shoved him angrily before walking back into Admon’s room, which would soon turn into his death bed.

Sherlock was kneeling, distressed and doing all he could to keep it together for his friend…He couldn’t say dying, he just couldn’t.

This wasn’t happening. He couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it until he saw with his own eyes – hopeless hope kept Sherlock wishing for a miracle, even though he had never believed in miracles. Sherlock was desperate for anything.

Admon was lying on his bed in his London home, covers pulled up to his chin to ward off the chill. The vibrant red of his hair was a stark contrast to ivory white of his pillow. Other than his face, sunken and in deep pain, his right arm was the only limb exposed; around his wrist there was a thick, clunky Magick restraint.

Sherlock was clutching his hand tightly in his own, up near Admon’s shoulder; close to his face.

Tears were building in Sherlock’s eyes; he didn’t know how much longer he could hold them in. He couldn’t believe the worst of his nightmares was coming to life before his eyes, denial and shock kept Sherlock from collapsing.

Not him, please, please, not…not him.

Admon, who had been in a half-sleep, fluttered his eyes open; his eyes were glassy and dull.

A barely there twinge of brightness returned when he saw Sherlock at his side, before it faded once more.

“Sherlock, you’re here…” His voice was nothing like the warm, honey tone Sherlock knew so well – there was barely any breath, and almost no life.

Sherlock tried to smile. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

Admon’s twitched in a barely there smile.

“I know, I know you…Thank-you, for trying to, to save them.”

The first of his tears fell.

“I…I’m sorry, I tried, I should’ve been able-” Sherlock muttered, angry at himself, angry at the world, angry at Admon for leaving him like this.

“Sherlock Holmes, speechless for once in his life. I must – must write this down.”

Sherlock felt his heart ache. “Be quiet, you.”

“Never. We’re two of a kind, stubborn, talkative, and annoying to all those who know us.” Admon, whose eyes were still closed, tried to chuckle, but it came out as more of a wheeze.

Sherlock could see what he was doing. Admon didn’t need to be strong for him; Sherlock could be the strong one, for once.

“Speak for yourself.” Sherlock mumbled, not having the energy to play along any further, and started rubbing Admon’s cold hand in-between his own.

“Sherlock, I implore you – please, you must promise me-” Admon started coughing.

Sherlock abruptly lifted his head up, steadfastly ignoring the tears silently falling down his face, and reached out to turn Admon on his side with both hands; rubbing his back to make the coughing easier.

Each of those horrible, wretched sounds was each a dagger to Sherlock’s swiftly shrivelling heart.

“Be silent.” Sherlock said, in an eerie mirror to what Admon said to him, when Sherlock was overdosed on morphine.

“No. I’m dying. This can’t, I need to say this, before I am no longer able to.” Admon opened his eyes as far as he was able, which wasn’t much, and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock bit his lip to keep the sob in his throat escaping.

This wasn’t happening, please…

“Please, don’t let this destroy you. I know Sherlock, I know how you feel-” Sherlock couldn’t hold it in anymore, those words were the final lash against his wounds, he broke down sobbing; clinging to Admon’s hair and back, face directly in front of his own. Even in his weakened state, Admon tried to comfort Sherlock by reaching out with a shaky hand to rest on the top of Sherlock’s head. “-I am sorry, the world won’t always be this cruel a place. You need, you need to find love and happiness, with people, your Work, anything, I know you would wish otherwise but you need these things as much as anyone. I know you detest clichés-” Sherlock began shaking his head, but this was the last thing he could to for Admon; listen. “-just please, don’t let this destroy you. I couldn’t bear leaving knowing that you would follow close behind me. I know you are incredibly stubborn, and have trouble letting things go, but y-you must Sherlock. You must, please-” Admon’s increasingly desperate words failed him. He began coughing again, eyes watering and blood spitting from his mouth.

“I promise. I promise, I promise.” Sherlock quickly said, resting his hands on both sides of Admon’s face, making sure Admon could see him speak and know that even if Sherlock were to fail in this request, he would try his hardest. There is nothing he would not do for the man who held his love for nearly 30yrs.

Admon reached out and gently touched the tip of his finger, and then his whole hand to Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and turned his face into the touch.

“Thank-you.” He nodded, a weak twitch of his jaw, but his shone with gratefulness and the most life Sherlock had seen in weeks. “This is my end, not yours. Remember that, my dear, old friend. You have always had my love.”

Sherlock could barely see through the tears streaming water falls down his cheeks and onto the bed below.

“You always were a romantic.” Sherlock utterly failed in his attempt at a smile.

Admon looked at Sherlock with sunlight in his eyes.

“I learned from the best.” Admon patted his cheek. Sherlock actually laughed there, even if it was a tad hollow. Admon smiled. “There it is. Thank-you, for that.”

Sherlock looked at him with mild confusion. “For what?”

Admon let his hand fall away. Sherlock started to panic.

“For laughing. I needed to…make you…once, m…” Admon’s eyes remained half-open, but his entire body sunk as his chest finally fell and rose no more.

Sherlock froze.

Everything was silent.

Everything.

“No…” Sherlock’s breath left his body as he collapsed, pulling and clutching Admon’s lifeless body off the bed and against his chest; holding tightly as he buried his face in his best-friends neck and shook with the most toxic of tears – silent ones.

Sherlock would have gladly lived a life holding the pain of unrequited love rather than the body of his best-friend if that’s what it meant to save him.

Sherlock whipped his head around and found Mycroft, along with his parents, watching from the doorway. His mother and father were important to him, but Mycroft understood him – as much as Sherlock hated to admit it – in a way no one else did.

In that moment, he felt like a foolish young boy, looking to his older brother for some unknown answer.

“Please.” Sherlock uttered, rocking back and forth.

For the first time in his life, Mycroft wished he had power to bring a person back from the dead – sadly, that was something even Magick could not accomplish.

He gave his a brother a grave, genuinely sad look.

“I’m sorry brother.”

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and started shaking his head rapidly, whimpers escaped his mouth.

At that moment his mother rushed towards him, fell to her feet and embraced her son, still holding onto the body of Admon.

Sherlock did something he hadn’t done since he was six years old, and he came home from his first horrible experience with bullying, he buried his face in his mother’s shoulder and cried.

Mycroft and his father were silent figures to the scene before them, watching son and brother break before their grieving eyes.

Mycroft was obviously deeply saddened by Admon’s passing of course, but truth be told, he was most worried what this would do to Sherlock, and if he would be able to deal with the consequences.

As Sherlock continued to pour out tears, wishing his heart would follow, he remember words his brother once told him – after he had found Sherlock that first time in Whitechapel.

“All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage.”

Only in that moment, as he sat grieving with his arms around his lifeless best-friend, did Sherlock truly believe him.

~

“No! No, please…don’t make me. There is no point, you’re finished. The spider has been caught by his own web.” Sherlock, much older, was lying on a metal table in a curved, almost domed room. He was gritting his teeth, not willing to let any expression of the pain he is feeling show.

Sherlock has experienced pain greater than this. He can deal until his brother and his team arrives.

He knows what Moriarty can do though, where his true evil genius lies. Sherlock has managed to subvert him so far, even Magickally restrained as he was.

If he found it though, Sherlock’s greatest pain…he would be finished. And Sherlock made a promise he had managed to keep – if only in the sparsest of ways – for over one hundred years.

He can make it a little longer. He must.

The only other objects were the Magick restraints holding down his nude form and an elegant, velvet chair off to the side; upon which sat Moriarty with a manic, snakelike grin, staring intently and with deep Magick focus at the prostate Sherlock, already covered in days’ worth of wounds sustained from Magick.

“You may be right.” Moriarty sighed dramatically. He stood up from his chair, clapped his hands together and approached Sherlock on the table. “But you are forgetting something about me my dear, I don’t care. I don’t care if there’s no point. You have brought this upon yourself by being such a stupid, frustrating man – you’re not like me at all, not like a thought, too bad, so sad, really. I will find out why, what you are hiding in that beautiful mind of yours with such lovely willpower.” He could feel Moriarty in his mind, like a virus. The man may be minimally experienced in comparison to Sherlock, but he had relentless resolve and Sherlock was growing weaker. Moriarty put his face very close to Sherlock’s and in the quietest of breaths, whispered his final words. “Everyone has their greatest pain Sherlock, time to find out yours.”

Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

John felt like he’d been drawn, quartered, tied to a roller-coaster and run over by screaming children.

Not only was he a witness to the most private of Sherlock’s memories, he felt and saw them from his point of view.

And John knew he only saw a few of them.

John ached, tears were running down his face – he didn’t know if they were his or Sherlock’s. John felt shattered, sad, devastated by the experience but Sherlock…the loss, Sherlock’s greatest pain…John knew it had to be horrible, but seeing it, feeling it first hand – John was torn between wanting to forget and holding Sherlock tight.

John had lost people he loved, but not like that, nothing, nothing quite like that.

Admon was everything to Sherlock.

The knowledge added a new level of reality to Sherlock’s reaction up on the cliff, when John kissed him.

Had he remembered Admon then? Coldly reminded of what he never had?

Oh Sherlock…

John knew he was still in Sherlock’s head, which meant Sherlock had to be close by and he needed to see if he was alright…alright? How could he be alright after what just happened? John had no idea what he was going to say to him, but all that had been rushed on John was hard enough for him to feel, he couldn’t even imagine what it must’ve been like for Sherlock.

Would he still wish he’d never remembered? Or would he be grateful for having those memories back in his conscious mind, as painful as they were?

John had no time to think on what all this may or may not implicate in regards to his bond with Sherlock, or even what Sherlock would be like now that he had all of himself in relative one piece again.

John hadn’t moved since he fell and rolled onto his back in the fog-cleared, candlelit darkness, still he felt like he’d been tossed around in a washing machine for a good few hours.

So it was with slow, but steady, progress that John sat up, groaned and pushed himself to his feet; twin feelings of apprehension and unease in his chest.

It was when John looked around that he noticed something integral had changed.

It was pitch black.

There was no candle, no light of any kind and no fog.

Not only that, everything felt, different.

His Magick was pulsing, even stronger than it was before, and yet, John felt…alone.

He must’ve been in Sherlock’s mind, but then, where was Sherlock?

That’s what was missing, Sherlock’s presence.

John started to feel scared that something had gone wrong.

He tried walking forward, but all he heard was his widely echoing footsteps, nothing around him changed.

“Shit.” John swore. Something wasn’t right. He was right on the verge of potentially making an arse of himself by yelling Sherlock’s name, when he heard it.

“John.”

John whipped around. There was Sherlock. “Oh thank God.” John breathed heavily and rested his hands on his knees for a moment before straightening and looking at Sherlock standing directly in front of him.

He looked shaken, and John found he couldn’t read his face, but most significant was that Sherlock wasn’t just wearing very, very familiar clothes; they were an exact copy of the BMC patient garb, he looked like a slightly healthier version of the man John saw in that hospital-like bed.

Did this…actually work?

“Sherlock, are you…alright?” John felt a bit stupid asking that.

Sherlock’s face shuttered and he looked off to the side. John watched him carefully. He seemed like the man he’d been interacting with, and getting to know in the most bizarre and unusual of ways, but he felt different – not doubt about it.

“Yes.”

John blinked. Sherlock sounded like he was telling the truth, mostly he just sounded tired. Regardless, John wasn’t sure if he entirely believed him.

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and took a deep, full-bodied breath. He nodded, and then looked at John.

That same, indefinable look from before was back.

Only this time, Sherlock regarded John with immeasurably torn eyes.

John wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Sherlock walked forward toward John, and John forced himself to remain still. As he got closer, flashes of Sherlock and Admon as young men flashed across his eyes; John tried to restrain the pained expression on his face, but gathering by the way Sherlock abruptly stopped and stared at John with something almost like insecurity, and distress, Sherlock saw and likely deduced what John had just been remembering.

John parted his mouth to say something, but ultimately decided against it; sighing into his palm instead.

I am woefully unqualified to deal with this.

Suddenly John felt a hand pull the one he’d been using to cover his face away.

Sherlock was staring at John with a considering, largely unreadable expression. He dropped John’s hand and touched a single finger to John’s cheek.

John’s mouth parted in a quiet gasp at the contact that felt so different from before, and it didn’t escape John’s notice it was exactly what Admon did to Sherlock.

What is he doing? John didn’t know, but whatever Sherlock was thinking John remained quiet and let him continue.

John watched him; unblinking.

Sherlock seemed to sway a little towards John, before he inhaled sharply and pulled his finger away; stumbling backward as he did so, sudden immense distress widening his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John, with a pounding heart, furrowed his brow in concern.

Before John could take a step towards him, Sherlock fixed him with a determined, if repentant, gaze that had John freezing midstep.

“I apologize for this, John.”

“What-”

Sherlock reached out a hand palm out in John’s direction, and unexpectedly John was hit with a wave of Magick that knocked him out instantaneously.

John collapsed in a heap and Sherlock rippled out of view, leaving John alone in the darkness.

~

John groaned, fingers and toes twitching underneath the fresh blanket covering him, and slowly opened his eyes, his body felt tense and stiff like he’d been sleeping for far too long.

He felt an odd disconnect, a sense of not quite right. The light shining on his face was coming from the wrong direction.

Why am I not in my room?

“Welcome back to the real world, Doctor Watson.”

John’s eyes flashed open fully.

The real world…Sherlock’s mind.

Wait, so that must mean –

John was awake.

He felt an overwhelming swoop of sensations as all he experienced, all he felt gushed into his waking mind in waves. There was an odd miasma, not quite dream not quite quality to the memories, but they were still as clear to John as any other.

John gasped. Sherlock. John rushed to sit up, and paid for it with blood pounding in his head in the form of a dense, painful headache. He hunched over his tingling legs, moving for the first time in – who knows. feck. John rested his elbows on his knees and began kneading his temples with the balls of his hands.

“Sherlock-”

“Is conscious, and well enough given the fact that he’s just awoken from a five year Magick coma, obstinate as ever of course.” It was Mycroft who spoke (once again standing at the foot of John’s bed), obviously. John’s relief at hearing that Sherlock was miraculously conscious was massive, that wasn’t his only feeling though. “A reality I have you to thank for. I will never be able to fully express my-”

“You knew.” John declared with dangerously quiet ire, he let his hands slowly fall from his head and onto his blanket covered legs.

John lifted his head and glowered at Mycroft.

Mycroft blinked quickly in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

With the memories fresh in his mind, and Mycroft’s voice as the first thing he heard upon waking, John realized without a shred of doubt that not only did Mycroft suspect what the red dog likely represented and knew what Sherlock’s greatest pain was – something he ardently said he didn’t know, or at the very least implied he didn’t, which John knew then was absolute bollocks – he lied about his knowledge and didn’t say a word.

John couldn’t help thinking that having particular knowledge, at least some of it, would’ve been most helpful.

Instead, he and Sherlock probably stumbled around a lot longer than they needed to.

So why, why did Mycroft lie?

“Admon.” John did not relent in his stare down of the older Holmes brother.

The moment the name passed John’s lips, the expression on Mycroft’s face changed completely.

“Ah, yes.” Mycroft sighed, a timeworn sadness drawing the lines of his face.

John snorted in disbelief.

“Yes, ah-” John emphasized this with quotations. I really haven’t punched anyone in a very long time. “Is that all you have to say? Seriously?”

“No, and before you do something you’ll come to regret John-”

“Dr. Watson, and I doubt I’d regret anything.”

Mycroft sighed, obviously irritated. John couldn’t give rats arse. (John supposed it was possible he was experiencing some emotional overlap by what just happened…)

“Fine, Dr. Watson. I will explain myself but first, I will need you to calm down.”

John blinked at him in disbelief. “Calm down-” John abruptly stopped when he noticed Mycroft was covering his eyes.

That was also when John noticed the lights in the room were glowing abnormally bright in response to his own anger.

Oh.

Oh.

John remembered feeling his Magick again towards the end there, the way it felt unbroken – a tingling companion like healthy Magick should feel, but he never dreamed it would actually carry over – what the hell happened?

His anger rapidly deflated and he collapsed back onto the bed, covering his face with both hands.

Christ.

Is there such a thing as an emotional hangover?

John felt more than saw the lights return to their natural state.

He heard Mycroft moving, until he was obviously sitting on the edge of what previously had been Sherlock’s bed.

Previously…Mycroft did say Sherlock was conscious, yes?

John dropped his hands and quickly glanced at the bed. It was empty, and had been neatly made to near military precision.

John couldn’t believe it. It actually worked.

Sherlock was ok. Maybe. He was going to be ok. John would rather see the man for himself.

John felt a funny jump in his heart and lump in his throat at the thought.

He would get to meet Sherlock, in person.

They had shared an experience few life-long friends ever do, let alone strangers…were they still strangers? Their unique bond made it a difficult line to define, at the moment at least. And by the quiet murmured words after they, they kissed – or rather John kissed Sherlock, Sherlock had deduced the nature of their bond.

It was all very confusing, and John was positive it was going to be awkward as hell. At least at first. It certainly wouldn’t be boring.

He hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t resent him for the intrusion, no matter how necessary it was, but John would understand if he did, he could deal. It’s not like John would be pleased either if some stranger took a waltz through his most private and vulnerable memories.

John looked up at Mycroft and was reminded of just that – which he’d temporarily forgotten in the wake of…everything else.

Christ, I really am out of it.

John groaned at the tight feeling in his muscles as he sat up, and swung his legs off the side of the bed so he was sitting level with Mycroft. He fixed the man with a determined ‘this better be good’ stare. John’s headache was still raging fierce, but compartmentalizing physical pain was something John was thoroughly practised in. “Yes.”

Mycroft nodded as if that was what he expected, even though it was clear by the uncharacteristically reluctant nature of his demeanour that he held no particular wish to do so, but recognized he would have to.

“I’ll come straight to the point; I didn’t want to cause my brother any more pain. I was powerless to help him all those years ago and I had the foolish hope I would not be quite so helpless now. Coniuncti Sumus has shown to be capable of extraordinary Magick. I thought that perhaps, maybe, this bond you and my brother possess would find a miraculous way of bringing my brother back to this world without reviving the entirety of his memory. He is a far more emotional man than I by nature, despite how he may seem at times. The close relationship he held with Admon proves that. Unfortunately, this comes with the inevitable side effect of pain, and loss. I had hoped to protect my brother from that reality. It was not my intention to make this more difficult, rather the exact opposite. Yet another way in which sentimentally got the better of me and I failed, twice.” Mycroft sighed, slightly hunched over and no longer so irritatingly composed. “I never expected my brothers first time entering this facility would be as a patient. In truth, he hardly acknowledged at all. I was one of the few who knew the full breadth of Sherlock’s past, and the real depth of his capability of feeling. I suspect he believed that coming here at all would be admitting a weakness. A trait of his I now regret encouraging in him, thinking it would protect him from further heartbreak. However, looking back – I believe it would’ve made the ensuing years after losing Admon easier if he looked to his feelings as a source of strength, and not a weakness. Age does not always equate wisdom.” Mycroft restrained his posture and a found, if regretful smile graced his face for the briefest of moments before vanishing behind his stoic façade. “Sherlock would be far too pleased to hear me admit to how wrong I have been.”

And it was a façade. Clearly, the iceman persona Mycroft exuded wasn’t all there was to the man. He was allowing John to see him with this exposure and John did. Quite honestly, John felt sorry for him – and not quite as angry as he felt before. John wasn’t happy, but he could understand. He wouldn’t wish Harriet to go through what Sherlock did and would do everything in his power to help her if he could.

John could imagine it would be even more difficult for someone like Mycroft; for whom intense emotions were a far more foreign territory than to Sherlock, except, apparently, where his little brother was concerned.

Something in what Mycroft said hit John. Hold on a minute –

“Admons last name was Burd.”

Mycroft raised a brow and nodded.

“And this facility was founded in 1895.” John couldn’t exactly blame himself for not putting it together just yet – he had just spent who knows how long fumbling his way through the mind of an emotionally distraught man.

Still, what Mycroft said made a lot more sense.

Mycroft breathed deeply. “You have a decent memory Dr. Watson. I erected the ‘Burd Memorial Centre for the Restoration, Rehabilitation and Treatment of the Magickally Impaired and Damaged’ a few short months after Admon died. It was my way of…atoning, I suppose.”

John leaned forward, elbows rested on his knees. “Atoning?”

“Even in those years I held a significant position in the British government, with access to the most confidential of resources. I am not of the same Magick class level as my brother, but even so my power was – is – substantial, and it did not help the man my brother loved. I told my brother that the reason Admon wouldn’t, couldn’t heal, was because he didn’t want to; the grief of losing one’s wife and child too great. But the truth is I didn’t know for certain. It was a component for sure, however there has always been a part of me that wondered if only we had more time, if there had been somewhere dedicated solely to study the afflictions damaged Magick can cause, and thus create regimes to assist in the healing process, Admon might have been saved. I still do not know what would have become of their relationship, but at least my brother would’ve been spared the pain of his death on top of those of Sophia and his godson.” Mycroft stood up, grabbed the umbrella which had been leaning against the rail of bed John was in, and went in front of the singular window; his back to John. “When I told Sherlock what I intended on founding here, he didn’t say a word to me. Although his expression I believe told me something along the lines of ‘too little, too late’. I never expected anything more.”

John sighed and hung his head. “It sounds to me that you did all you could’ve possibly done. You can’t do more than that.” He couldn’t believe he was comforting Mycroft, but after listening to him…the man blamed himself for something that was, ultimately, not his fault.

Mycroft hummed. “Perhaps. In any event I assume you want to meet my brother in the flesh.” He turned around, the very picture of composure once more.

John inwardly kicked himself when a part him screamed ‘yes!’, and not just for reasons relating to want to ascertain Sherlock’s mental and physical health for himself.

He nodded and moved to get up.

Mycroft held out a hand to stop him. “Before you go Dr. Watson, there a couple of things you should know, not the least of which is why you’re feeling the return of your Magick’s control.”

How Mycroft could know that John didn’t know. The light thing could just as easily been the result of unrestrained, out of control Magick. John only knew it wasn’t because the light didn’t harm him, like it did Mycroft that resulted in the man covering his eyes.

Still, it was something John wanted to know – although he was half-tempted to say to hell with it, and go find Sherlock instead.

The man had to have more than a lot on his mind, John wouldn’t take up much of his time– he knew Sherlock would need space, but he just…John just wanted to make sure he was ok, wanted to see him. Hopefully he wouldn’t make a complete arse of himself.

John did sit back down though. Mycroft strode back over, keeping a reasonable distance.

“I will let my brother fill you in on the details, but suffice to say something happened, more likely a series of events occurred that led to a breaking point which resulted in a brief amalgamation of your Magicks. I told you Coniuncti Sumus is capable of remarkable feats of Magick, this wasn’t an exaggeration on my part. It seems that when your Magick connected temporarily with Sherlock’s own which was mostly healed, together they fed off each other and created a force which ended up healing each of your Magicks of damage – practically speaking. You will still have some mental adjustment, as will Sherlock – for many reasons, but whatever happened, it saved you many months if not at least a year in the Centre. As it stands, you should be able to leave in a few weeks.”

Holy shit.

Holy. [b]Shite[b].

John’s mouth parted as he let what Mycroft just said settle in his mind.

He couldn’t believe it. It seemed too much like a miracle, yet the evidence was there in how he felt, the familiar tingle in his hands when he focused.

It seemed he had more than one thing to thank Sherlock for, no matter how unintentional the action.

John could cry. He wouldn’t, but the emotion was there; overwhelming, unquantifiable, relief.

He couldn’t say he was sorry for going to the Centre, not when it led to the experience he shared with and meeting Sherlock, but John wasn’t exactly eager to stay either.

John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, liberating breath.

“I imagine this must come as shock.”

John snorted. No kidding.

It was a shock he was immensely grateful for.

“I am sure you are eager to see Sherlock. I will delay the medical staff in their examination of you and discussion of what the next few weeks will entail and make sure you have access to leave Paget Wing, my only request is that once you and my brother are finished speaking you return here. Dr. Hooper and Dr. Thompson will be waiting for you in the main Paget Wing lobby.” Mycroft pulled out a pocket watch with a long chain attached and glanced at the clock face briefly. “With that I must be off, there is a country to run after all. I believe you will find Sherlock outside in the rock garden with a stolen pack of cigarettes. Perhaps you could dissuade him of the habit, since you are obviously a man capable of miracles Dr. Watson.”

“John.”

Mycroft looked surprised at John’s utterance. He gave John a nod. “John, then. I bid you good day.”

They both moved to leave at the same time. John was grateful that despite the initial shakiness of his footing, he seemed able to walk decently enough.

It was as Mycroft was opening the door and exiting, and John was giving the room a brief look over, that he was reminded of something else he wanted to know.

“When did we wake up?” John gesture towards the two beds.

Mycroft paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked back towards John.

“Sherlock woke up after twenty-six hours, you ten hours later.”

John was unconscious for thirty-six hours? Honestly, he had been expecting longer, but wait –

“Hold on. Why did I wake up that long after Sherlock?

John was abruptly reminded of the last event in Sherlock’s mind. When John was surrounded in darkness, Sherlock showed up and then – John was well and truly unconscious. He seemed to remember Sherlock touching him, backing away and then apologizing? Before he reached out a hand and that was where John’s memory blanked.

Did Sherlock do something to him?

“I will leave that particular explanation to my brother.”

John frowned, but nodded reluctantly; standing there silently for a moment. John sighed and continued around the slight corner to the door exit. He was distracted, and lost in thought with how he would approach his first physical conversation with Sherlock, and so barely caught himself from bumping into Mycroft.

John thought the man had left. Clearly not, when John looked up Mycroft was staring at him.

John returned the unblinking, calculating nature of Mycroft’s gaze. “What?”

“I have no doubt we will meet again soon John, in the meantime I feel I should warn you – I will not stand by and watch my brother’s heart become broken again, I assure you the consequences will be – deathly severe.” Mycroft wore a subtle smirk, yet John knew there was nothing understated in what was a very obvious, warning directed at him.

John was confused in that he didn’t know why Mycroft seemed sure that John and Sherlock would be embarking on a relationship – for one thing, they hardly knew each other enough for that, and with what John saw in Sherlock’s mind…He wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock wasn’t at all interested in a romantic relationship period.

John wouldn’t – couldn’t – allow himself to feel either hope or disappointment about what may or may not happen, either way John knew that in some way Sherlock would be in his life. Even if it wasn’t in the way John wished, his only real fears were that Sherlock wouldn’t want to see him again at all, and that if John’s attraction and newly forming feelings towards Sherlock were already this intense now, John didn’t want to imagine how he may feel upon knowing the man longer.

And with what John saw, he knew Sherlock deserved happiness – whatever form that may take.

“Understood.” Was all John said in response, but his accepting, open posture spoke volumes to Mycroft.

If John ever broke Sherlock’s heart, it would not be by choice.

“Excellent.” Mycroft appeared genuinely pleased. “I thank-you John, for all you have done.”

“I was glad to help.” More than glad.

“Until later then.” Mycroft gave John a brief nod before smoothly exiting the room.

Well, ok then.

John took a deep breath, making a note to stop in his actual room before heading outside to grab his boots, coat, hat and gloves, and walked out of the room – shutting the door behind him.

It was a bit surreal walking down the familiar hallway, a bit like seeing it through a fresh pair of eyes.

So much had changed.

When John entered his room for the first time in over day, unsurprisingly it was unchanged, save for; someone had made the bed after his hasty exit, and leaning against the wall, directly beside the table holding a lamp and novel John had been reading, was his cane.

…His cane. He had completely forgotten about it, he didn’t have it or apparently need it in Sherlock’s mind, and when after that whirlwind experience was finished and John walked, without a limp – no support needed, without a thought to his cane.

Until he saw it, a silent symbol showing exactly how much everything could change in mere days.

John exhaled a breathless smile. It was another thing to be grateful for.

He then approached his dresser, coat and other outside garments, laying neatly on top and donned his outerwear. John left his room and made to go outside. He would need to exit Paget Wing to reach the Rock garden he knew, but otherwise John had no idea how to get there. He’d have to get someone to show him.

After that, John would talk with Sherlock.

In person. For the first time.

John wondered if it was normal that he felt more apprehension at that, than entering an active warzone.

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Chapter 13

A Meeting Of Hearts

Snow seldom fell heavily in this area of England, so the rock garden – a small rather stark spectacle, at least in winter – was one of the few gardens that remained largely the same in appearance despite being covered in an inch or two of snow. At least, that’s what John was told by Henry, who had actually been waiting for John at Paget Wings exit to guide him to the garden. The young man was inordinately pleased to see that he made it through the ordeal alright, his short conversation with Henry afforded John the knowledge that all Paget Wing staff, and the head Doctors on the medical board of the Centre, knew of Sherlock’s presence – even though only a select few knew why, Henry wasn’t one of them, and he didn’t ask.

John appreciated his professionalism, despite being obviously curious. It wasn’t John’s place to share anyhow.

After a short walk, through the main building and out along the thoroughly plowed pathways, and a diversion around a newly built ice rink (which John had no idea existed) on which John could see Janine and Soo Lin clumsily skating (but clearly having fun, when they waved to John with relived smiles on their faces John found it surprisingly easy to wave and smile in return), Henry left John at the rock gardens entrance; which was two stone pillars bordered with dying, brown vines and dried leaves a mere winds breath away from falling off. A short, dry stone wall similar to those seen across many fields in the Yorkshire dales, encased an area approximately half an acre in size (according to Henry). There were juniper bushes and a large red sandstone blocking John’s view to beyond the rest of the garden, the blue of the berries and caramel red of the stone stood in vibrant contrast to the white snow and grey stone.

John took a step forward onto the lightly snow covered pathway, which curved around the huge sandstone (twice John’s size) and out of sight. He noticed on the rocks face there was a large, circle crossroads symbol half surrounded by a waning crescent moon. Like the caduceus, the symbol carved on the rock was often seen symbolising Magick based medicine.

If John hadn’t been told Sherlock was here, he would still know. It was probably the bond, but John could feel Sherlock’s presence nearby even if he couldn’t see him quite yet. The very real knowledge had John resorting to the stance and attitude he exuded during inspections by commanding officers in the army, it was a comforting and familiar metaphorical blanket to wear. John didn’t know how he would get through the upcoming conversation without some sort of internal backup.

It gave John a boost of confidence. He took a deep breath and walked around the red stone. The instant he did, a view of the rest of the garden was revealed to him; some unique stone statues and designs were barely visible, but there where many grouped together in configurations that vaguely reminded John of Stonehenge, weaving in and out of those was the shovelled path, a frozen pond, and benches both along the wall and within the garden itself.

Most important however, and what had John standing rooted to the stop with hands clenched at this sides, was the figure of a man sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest on the large, smooth surface of a lone rock practically centered in the garden’s middle, on the edge of the frozen over pond. He was donned in a familiar, long dark coat that obscured all but a few twirls of dark hair poking out from the upturned collar. His back was to John, and long, heavy streams of smoke, made even more obvious by the chill, rose in twirls above the single lit cigarette dangling precariously from between the gloved fingers of a hand resting on the stone beside him.

John had mixed feelings seeing Sherlock in person for the first time. He felt so achingly familiar to John, it would be impossible to forget that John had seen Sherlock at his most vulnerable, would it colour how he saw the man? Yet, there was something so unknowable and alien about him too. John had seen bits and pieces, never the whole.

Even from a distance, and without seeing his face, it was peculiar to note how Sherlock was both not a stranger and yet still a complete mystery to John in many ways.

John suspected Sherlock would see through any façade John put on if he tried to approach this casually, would it be better to just jump right in? Would he look like a complete idiot if John introduced himself?

Christ. John had never spent quite this much time thinking about what to say to someone, and how to say it, since his first date at fifteen.

That comparison wasn’t exactly helpful, not when John noted how much more rich the colour of Sherlock’s hair was in this physical world.

Don’t be stupid. Bite the bullet.

He probably already knows you’re here anyway.

“If you’re going to be standing there for much longer, John, at least do me the courtesy of thinking a little less loudly.” Sherlock breathed in through the butt of his cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke, all the while his back remained to John.

Bingo. Since he knew Sherlock couldn’t actually read minds, it was good for John to know Sherlock’s singular charm was intact.

John sighed. Here we go.

John could barely gauge what Sherlock was feeling, let alone thinking, by the tone of his voice; other than he sounded guarded, understandable. He knew who John was at any rate. John wondered if he remembered everything, or if because his mind was fractured as it was, there were bits he couldn’t recall.

At least he didn’t tell John to feck off, yet.

Neither said a word as John weaved and walked along the path, heading towards the rock garden’s centre where Sherlock was situated.

A cold wind nipped at John’s face, so John decided it was as good a time as any to experiment. He stopped walking, took off his gloves – tucking them under his arm, and cupped his hands around his mouth. With a little focus, John was able to either increase, or decrease his body temperature, not by a lot but it certainly helped during the cold or particularly warm months.

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath and called on his Magick as he exhaled. It happened instantly, his hands tingled and warmth flooded John’s veins – and not just from the new heat. John had nearly forgotten how good it felt to use his Magick, even before he lost control and arrived here, he’d forgotten.

Feeling a little better, John replaced his gloves on his hands and resumed walking – he faltered a step when he noticed Sherlock had turned his head and was watching him with inquisitive eyes; flitting between John’s hands and the red flush of heat that must be evident on John’s cheeks.

John kept walking, but was unable to look away as he realized this was the first time he was seeing Sherlock’s face, relatively healthy (horrendous chain smoking aside), in person.

It probably wasn’t polite to be staring like he was, but considering Sherlock was too, John let himself indulge.

There was still lingering evidence of Sherlock’s previous condition; slightly sunken cheeks, bruising around his eyes and fading scars upon his cheeks, along with thick, wide, dry lips. It was remarkable however how much better he already looked.

And how Sherlock was still somehow more striking than in his mind.

John resolved to keep that thought firmly to himself for the moment.

Sherlock’s expression was unreadable, yet the fact that he was so carefully meticulous about not allowing any emotion to show on his face spoke volumes in of itself.

He was probably more uncomfortable than John was.

When John reached Sherlock’s side, the man blinked looked away to face outward towards the rest of the snow covered garden; breathing in a new drag of smoke as he did so.

(John had to firmly restrain his Doctor side from commenting on that, given what Sherlock had been through – John supposed he could accept the presence of the vice)

The upturned collar of Sherlock’s coat and direction of his focus made it difficult to see Sherlock’s face. John guessed that was by design.

After John had already seen more than he suspected Sherlock ever wanted to share with anyone, he wasn’t surprised.

John breathed in and crossed his arms, exhaling as he followed Sherlock’s gaze and observed the rest of the garden.

It was nice, he supposed. John had always gone in more for greenery, but he could appreciate the stark beauty of this.

John frowned and shifted restlessly on his feet.

Beside him, Sherlock continued to inhale and exhale with the smoke; unmoving and silent.

I was wrong.

This is even more awkward than I thought it would be.

“You’re still thinking loud.”

John scowled at Sherlock. “I can’t exactly control that you know.”

Sherlock hummed around the butt of the cigarette in his mouth. “Perhaps, but maybe if you said whatever it is you are debating about so deeply to yourself, your thinking would be less annoying.”

John huffed. Not bad advice per se, but like John had experienced and witnessed before during a couple instances with Sherlock’s mind, the man was typically acerbic in his delivery. John doubted it was personal and was simply Sherlock being himself, this didn’t mean John found it a little bit ridiculous and insulting.

Still, John considered it half a win that Sherlock was even talking to him and not simply ignoring him altogether.

So John ignored the comment and quickly tried thinking of a place to start.

Where could he even begin? John had much to say, and ask, but found himself utterly clueless about where to go from here.

That was until he remembered what he asked Mycroft, when he had said John should ask Sherlock.

“Why did I wake up ten hours after you?” John put his hands in his pockets and turned his body slightly more towards Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t react, and exhaled more smoke; causing John to wrinkle his nose at the unpleasant odour.

“You didn’t.” Sherlock mumbled around his cigarette, his cheekbones were tinged cherry red from the cold.

Now John was confused. “What?”

“When I regained consciousness, you were seconds away from doing so yourself. There was still a lingering link between our minds, I used it to reconnect with you for a brief time before it faded and managed to knock you out for several more hours.”

John couldn’t help the indignant anger he felt. So it was him. “Why?” John said with a slightly raised voice.

John groaned. Yes, Sherlock was half-right, but John wasn’t completely insensitive. Sherlock wanting space made perfect sense; there were more polite and acceptable ways of getting it though than knocking people out.

“Christ Sherlock, if you needed space I would’ve given it to you. You didn’t need to knock me out, please do not do that again.” John emphasized this with a cutting downward wave of his hand through the air.

“There’s no need to worry, unfortunately it is not a skill consistently within my power. I was only able to do so by taking advantage of our unique situation at the time.” Sherlock gestured towards John with the hand holding a burning cigarette between his fingers. “So yes, I won’t be doing it again.”

John snorted softly. Not exactly what he wanted to hear, but good to know Sherlock couldn’t routinely knock him out at a moment’s notice.

I wasn’t exactly John’s right to get up on his high horse about it given the circumstances, John could understand and found he wasn’t all that surprised by Sherlock’s actions.

He let it go, for now. Pick your battles, John.

John exhaled and shifted on his feet. A group of birds in a nearby tree puffed and shivered in response to the cool wind, the only sounds were the distant happy noises from the skating rink, and the repeating draws and exhales of smoke-filled breath from Sherlock remaining sat on the large stone beside John.

Neither man spoke for several minutes.

It was still awkward, but having spoken, however briefly eased it somewhat. Despite the layer of tension a looming presence above them, John found it easier to talk to Sherlock than he thought it would be. It felt…natural.

What could they talk about now though? John wanted to say something about what he saw, how sorry he was – and John was, deeply, but he suspected it would be words Sherlock had long since grown sick of hearing.

“Don’t.”

John jumped a bit in surprise at the loudness of Sherlock’s voice.

“What?”

Sherlock sighed with deep annoyance. “You were going to express…apologetic sentiment for my situation. I don’t need it, nor do I want it.” Sherlock, perhaps with a bit more force than necessary, knocked the dead ash off from the cigarette on the stone surface beside him.

Just like John thought. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” Even if Sherlock didn’t appreciate it, there was tenderness in John’s voice when he spoke – but not pity. He meant what he said, even if he wanted to say something – felt like he should, John figured it wouldn’t be wise at this venture.

Sherlock looked at John with doubt clear in his face. John met his gaze with intent. It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s face melted into an expression of genuine surprise.

“You mean that.”

John nodded. “I do.”

Sherlock’s eyes blinked quickly. “Oh.” He turned back around, exposing only his profile to John. John exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “Thank-you.” Sherlock said inaudibly; with clearly forced nonchalance.

“No problem, I really have no real right to know what I do.” John admitted, looking down to the ground for a moment before looking off to the side. “I would imagine I’ve been an unwanted presence in your head enough for a lifetime.” John’s ensuing chuckle fell flat.

Out of the corner of his eye, John thought he saw Sherlock frown at his knees.

“No. Not unwanted.” The man murmured.

Huh? John abruptly looked at Sherlock with slightly widened eyes; it was said so quietly John wasn’t even sure he was supposed to have heard him. So he didn’t say anything. Not that he would even know what to say to that, other than to ask Sherlock to clarify what he meant. Gathering from the uncertainty in Sherlock’s utterance, maybe the man himself didn’t know.

With the pitiful increased pounding in his heart, it was perhaps better John didn’t know either.

John was grateful for the chance to be standing beside Sherlock, but after a further few minutes the silence began to weigh heavily again. John drew his hands out of his pockets and tucked them crossed into his armpits, rocking back and forth on the balls of his booted feet.

It felt natural when he was talking to Sherlock, but these silences inbetween were going to drive John crazy. He’d been carefully restraining himself from staring at Sherlock too much from the start of this, even though that’s all John wanted to do.

John turned his head slightly towards Sherlock, and watched the man’s profile for a minute, curly hair bouncing lightly in the wind, as he continued to smoke.

He really didn’t make it easy on himself being attracted to someone who would probably never return his less than friendly feelings, Sherlock had a great love – unfulfilled though it was – he probably didn’t want another.

Whoa, hold on John, love? Dial it back a notch Romeo.

There were probably all manner of reasons why Sherlock kissed John back on that cliff in his mind, did the man even remember? Given the state he was in, it was entirely possible Sherlock didn’t recall everything that happened, he obviously remembered some – as he knew who John was, but exactly what did he remember?

Did he remember…that?

“Contrary to what some may believe, I don’t bite – unless the situation calls for it,” What on earth did that mean? John tried hard not to let his mind go places with that. “I know you have questions John, ask them. No guarantee I’ll answer.”

John noticed Sherlock side glance him while taking another drag of his cigarette. John felt only momentarily embarrassed at being caught in the middle of very intense, not quite platonic, staring session.

John coughed awkwardly and looked at something a bit safer, like that rock in front of him shaped like a deformed whiskey tumbler. He also tried to pretend that he didn’t hear Sherlock chuckle, and felt far too pleased with himself for making him do so – even if it was at John’s own expense.

Sherlock was right though, of course, John had questions.

“How much do you remember?” John was torn between wanting and not wanting to know this. “From-”

“Everything.” Sherlock mumbled on an exhale of swirling smoke.

John looked at Sherlock. “Really?”

“Everything.” Sherlock gave John a brief pointed look, indecipherable emotion in his eyes, before looking away.

Shit. Master of deduction and all that, of course he figured out what John was really asking about.

Again, John coughed awkwardly, rubbing his palm against the back of his neck, and made sure to look at Sherlock directly.

“Listen, I’m sorry about-”

“There is no need to explain yourself John, I understand. I am sure the emotional high and deeply unfamiliar situation we found ourselves in was an overwhelming experience, along with my…depleted condition-” Sherlock interrupted John quickly, and drew in an unsteady breath with a frown on his face. “-you were trying to shock me out of my state. It worked. No harm done.” John thought Sherlock meant to give him a reassuring smile at that point, but it very clearly didn’t reach his eyes. He looked away and flicked the tip of his cigarette, ash falling onto the white snow.

Wait – What? Did Sherlock seriously think that John was going to give him an ‘it meant nothing’ speech?

Why? Not only was that not true, John wasn’t necessarily going to explain all his reasons in full, but what he intended on doing was simply apologizing for doing it, especially because Sherlock was in such a vulnerable state at the time – never mind that Sherlock reciprocated.

It did work in that it shocked Sherlock out of state, but John would be lying if he said that was why he kissed him in the first place. It was impulse, John thought Sherlock was decaying permanently before his eyes, and John was desperate to keep him there, with him.

He could let Sherlock keep his assumption, it was probably safer that way, but for some reason, John didn’t.

“That wasn’t why I kissed you.” John grimaced and rolled his eyes to the sky. Why John? Why? Why did you have to go and say that! Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?

That was the first time he’d said it out loud. His heart pounded loudly in his chest. And he felt, more than saw, Sherlock tense. When John looked back down at him, he was gaping at John in both surprise and confusion, cigarette dangling from his lips.

John barely restrained himself from flinching.

Idiot. What is he going to do with that? His eyes…What must he be reading on my face?

John parted his mouth to say – something, but quickly changed his mind and turned away from Sherlock, hiding his face from the observational genius.

Just be quiet John, and shut up.

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

After a moment, John turned his head slightly to check on Sherlock. The man was again frowning deeply to himself, and he shifted his position on the rock for seemingly no reason. Cigarette between his fingers he rested his elbows on the tops of his knees, and seemed hesitant as he came to rest his hands against his mouth.

He was obviously deep in thought – about what John said? And John couldn’t even begin to describe the look in his eyes.

John shivered and resumed staring forward.

The silence that descended then was particularly thick.

John thought he heard the voice of a nurse in the distance calling in the patients of the skating rink.

Neither one of them spoke.

Until John inwardly kicked himself and resolved to move on and leave this moment behind, since clearly Sherlock had nothing to say on the matter.

John breathed in deeply and stepped over closer to Sherlock and faced him. The other man didn’t seem to notice, John zeroed in on the deep bruises evident on his face and the too sharp appearance of his cheekbones with a critical Doctors eye.

“Are you feeling alright? And why the hell aren’t you getting some sleep?” What this man in front of him needed was a long, proper sleep, and a good deal of physical – and probably emotional – recuperation.

Sherlock flinched and looked up at John with a flash of annoyance. “Ugh, not you too.” Sherlock groaned and flicked away some more ash from his cigarette, this one nearly finished, before drawing in deep. “I’m fine. And I do think I’ve been asleep quite long enough thank-you.”

John rested a palm to his face. “That doesn’t count, and you know it! After what you’ve been through, you need proper sleep.”

Sherlock dismissed John’s words with a wave of his hand. “Boring.”

John rolled his eyes and prayed for patience.

Pick your battles, John. Maybe there was another reason he didn’t want to sleep.

John sighed. “And – otherwise?” That question was potentially playing with fire, and if Sherlock said fine, John would know he was lying.

The last time Sherlock was fully conscious he was lying on that metal table John saw, being tortured by Moriarty. No one, not even Sherlock Holmes, could be fine after something like that.

John nodded and looked at a random spot on the snowy, rocky ground. Something small, vaguely purple poked out from it. John wrinkled his brow and crouched, brushing away the snow with his hand; beneath the snow a part of a mosaic made out of semi-precious stones and smooth river rocks was exposed. He had no doubt this place must be quite the spectacle in spring, without snowy winters covering it up.

“Did I get anything wrong?”

John was taken aback at the suddenness and complete out of the blue nature of the question from Sherlock.

He unbent from his crouch, brushed the loose snow off his gloves, and looked at Sherlock.

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock gestured casually at John and proceeded to light a new cigarette with a previously unseen lighter. John frowned deeply at the sight; at this point John was dangerously close to grabbing those cursed things and running.

If Sherlock noticed John’s obvious distaste, he didn’t say anything.

“When I first saw you, in the hall outside your room.”

Oh.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Sherlock remembered that too? Of course John did. How could he forget that? It was…an abrupt, if intriguing first meeting, and which had obviously turned out to be more than coincidence.

But Sherlock asked him something…oh.

“You’re asking me if anything you deduced about me was wrong.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, the exasperated ‘obviously’ went unspoken.

John laughed a little. “Yes, actually.” Only one thing, and John had noted it to himself several times – he’d just never gotten the chance to correct Sherlock until then.

Sherlock looked at John in surprise, eyes flitting all over his face; observing him carefully for any lie, clearly wondering what he could’ve possibly gotten wrong.

John bit his lip to keep from smiling. It was almost adorable the way Sherlock was so annoyed with himself.

“It was still brilliant.” John said in effort to wipe that ridiculously downtrodden pout look on Sherlock’s face, no matter how adorable John found it.

And just like before, Sherlock’s eyes lit up for a moment.

“So I’ve heard you say.” Sherlock’s lip twitched into a smile. “Still, I will continue to strive in being right all the time.”

John snorted. “You know that’s not possible, right? You have to be wrong sometimes.”

Sherlock looked away from John with a minute, teasing grin on his face. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock breathed in a long, slow drag of his cigarette with a playful grin. “I’m never wrong.”

John shook his head fondly. “Are you trying to make me laugh?”

Sherlock hummed around the cigarette and shrugged.

Arse.

The lull that followed that time wasn’t awkward like the rest up until that point had been.

John breathed in the cold air, and started casually pacing around the small open space surrounding the giant rock Sherlock was sitting on.

It really was wonderful to not need a cane anymore, John found he could hardly stand still.

“There is room here, if you’d like to sit.”

“Hm?” John looked up at Sherlock, arms crossed and tucked warmly against his sides.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, bit the cigarette between his teeth, and picked up the half empty packet of cigarettes at this side; placing them in the pocket of his coat before brushing away most of the snow with his sleeve.

Sherlock then glanced pointedly at the now empty space and took the cigarette out of his mouth.

John blinked. Oh.

From any other individual, the action would’ve been a common courtesy, Sherlock however…he didn’t seem like the type who would put much stock in such consideration.

John tried very hard not to think on it too much, and ignored the way his pulse elevated.

He nodded, and tried to appear as relaxed as possible when he walked the few steps over to Sherlock and sat on the surface of the stone; even through the seat of his trousers John could tell it was so cold it may as well have been a block of ice.

“Ta.” John nodded and adjusted his position, grateful to be sitting despite the renewed energy he felt to walk.

Sherlock waved a hand. “It’s not my stone.”

John restrained a smile. “Still, thanks.” John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock conceded with a nod and merely returned to mouthing the cigarette.

John gulped. How can someone make such an awful habit look that…bewitching?

He shook the thought off and breathed for a moment.

John was beside him.

John, sitting close enough to touch, beside Sherlock.

In person.

John exhaled loudly. Fantastic. I can and will control myself.

He crossed his arms and leaned back a little.

“So, why are you out here?[/b]” John turned his body slightly toward Sherlock, right foot resting on the thigh of his left leg.

“The weather, obviously.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Sherlock inhaled a drag from his cigarette. “Yes. In there-” Sherlock gestures behind them with a nod of his head, smoke escaping his mouth with each word. “-it is confining, people constantly asked me how I was feeling. Tiresome, and annoying. Out here-” Sherlock pointed carelessly with his cigarette-free hand to garden in front of them. “-I can be alone without droves of idiots wanting to talk to me. I have the weather to thank for that.”

“Ah.” John nodded and scuffed the ground with the heel of his boot.

Sherlock sighed. “I didn’t mean [i]you; you are evidently cleverer than the average idiot.”

John snorted. “Thanks.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “You’re welcome.”

John smiled quietly to himself, insulting though they were; Sherlock’s backhanded compliments were entertaining he could admit. And John could understand what Sherlock meant, John may not have agreed with all of the people in the centre being idiots, but there definitely was something…calming, and conducive to thinking here; snowy, cold, devoid of life. Definitely a place to come and be alone, which was what Sherlock clearly intended, particularly since the rock garden was the furthest corner of the property a person could get without being out of sight of the facility itself.

“I…when I awoke, I found it difficult being inside that place.”

Sherlock breaking the silence had John refocusing on him with intent, especially since there was something new, and dare he think it – vulnerable, in Sherlock’s voice.

Sherlock had straightened out his legs, now crossed at the ankle in front of him, and had one arm hugging himself as the other continued the passage from cigarette to mouth. Most of all, his face was drawn and staring into his lap with a troubled frown.

John’s instinct told him it was very important that he not say anything and just let Sherlock talk.

“Everything was very present, and raw for the first few hours. That building reminded – reminds me greatly of the home Admon and his family lived in during summers, and they would move up from London for a few months. I tagged along a couple of times.” Sherlock straightened his posture and looked pointedly away, as though trying to hide himself. “Initially, weak as it was, let’s just say there was more than one reason for me to want to be out of there, other than to escape the company of my brother and everyone else.”

His voice didn’t change, but Sherlock did tense when he said his long passed friend’s name. John wondered how long it had been since he said it out loud, hearing him say it here, right now, beside John…John knew this was important. His heart ached at the look on Sherlock’s face, perhaps not wrung with the sting of new grief, but scarred with the memories of old pain. And John felt deeply honoured that Sherlock was allowing John this glimpse, of his own free will, and not at the behest of his fractured mind.

And still Sherlock called himself weak, when there was no doubt in John’s mind, no matter the short length they’d known each other, he was the strongest man he knew.

‘…I believe it would’ve made the ensuing years after losing Admon easier if he looked to his feelings as a source of strength, and not a weakness…’

John didn’t need Mycroft’s words to believe that.

“You’re not weak.” John stated firmly, resting his hand flat on the stone between them as he stared Sherlock down.

Sherlock flinched, as if he’d forgotten momentarily that John was there, but he looked at John – first his hand, then his face – with surprise at how emphatic John had spoken.

He frowned. “I-”

“No.” John cut his other hand through the air.

Sherlock tensed defensively. “If I weren’t-”

“No!” John’s voice increased in volume. “You lost someone you cared deeply for, that doesn’t go away. Believe me, I know. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And if I have to bang that into your head every day for the rest of my life, so help me, I will.” John turned to face Sherlock completely now, near desperate to get his words through the thick skull of the man beside him.

Sherlock went from purposefully aloof to almost tenderly amused by the end of John’s little speech.

Sherlock parted his mouth, but then closed it again; face drawn in deep thought. He turned away from John and once again faced out towards the rocky garden.

“Any head banging won’t be necessary.” Sherlock muttered around the base of his cigarette.

John blinked in surprise. He’d half expected an argument, and even though John didn’t get point-blank acceptance from Sherlock (not that John expected to) he didn’t receive outright denial either. John knew that was all he would get for now.

“We’ll see.” John shrugged and matched Sherlock’s pose, exhaling deeply with a shiver. “Having a heart and a massive intellect don’t automatically cancel each other out you know.”

John closed his eyes briefly. Shit. He felt Sherlock watching his profile intently. John hadn’t meant to imply what he clearly did, John half-assumed in his own mind – with their bond and all – that it was simply fact. Maybe Sherlock took it as an unwanted intrusion.

What should he say?

“Yeah, um-”

“It probably would take that long to make me believe something I have no particular desire to anyway.” Sherlock hummed matter-of-factly. “I’ve been told I’m more than a little hard-headed.”

John flashed his eyes open and stared at Sherlock.

Warmth suffused his system.

“Only a little?” John scoffed.

Sherlock grinned and looked at John. “Wait until you know me a little better.”

John laughed – mostly because Sherlock had all but explicitly confirmed that of course John would be around, and giddy relief was making him feel light in spite of the nature of their conversation and what lead them here.

John hadn’t wanted to assume, but it seemed it wouldn’t have mattered if he did.

“I can’t wait.” John nodded with a smile.

John suspected there would be times he would regret saying that, like when his temper got the best of him – and he instinctively knew Sherlock would be the type of man to stoke his ire on occasion, but something told him in the end, no matter what happened, it would be alright. At the very least, knowing Sherlock Holmes would certainly not be boring.

He tried not to read too much into the fond gaze Sherlock was watching him with.

John coughed awkwardly and shifted a bit on the spot.

Snow began to fall, light, and when one clump landed on the tip of Sherlock’s nose and the man crossed his eyes indignantly - trying to see it, John couldn’t help it what happened next.

He goddamn howled and collapsed onto his back.

Sherlock was looking at him like John was the insane one; this only made John laugh more. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed this much.

When John failed to notice that he was dangerously close to falling over the edge of the stone, and did so with an embarrassing squeak of surprise and landed face down on a pile of snow.

The laugh Sherlock expelled into the air then made the embarrassment almost worth it.

Oh who was John kidding? Of course the snow freezing his face and making itself comfy in the neck of his coat, was a worthy sacrifice if it made Sherlock laugh like that.

But only barely.

John was not a fan of snow getting in his pants.

John pushed himself out of the pile with an angry huff, and stumbled backwards as he quickly brushed snow off his front.

He wasn’t looking, but John could hear Sherlock still giggling unashamedly.

“You just watch yourself.” John huffed and pointed determinedly at the sniggering Sherlock still sitting primly on the rock, cigarette dangling from his mouth. “I would have no compunction about pushing you.” John took his gloves off again. “See how you like snow freezing your bollocks.” John did a funny a little jumping movement to try and dislodge bits of quickly melting snow that made their way past the waistband on his trousers and, unfortunately, into his pants.

He cupped his hands around his mouth, and on an exhale John summoned his Magick again to increase his core body temperature; the result of which made the cold liquid on his skin begin to dry.

John sighed in relief and replaced the gloves on his hands.

“Better?”

John looked up and nodded at Sherlock.

“Much.”

He made his way over and resumed sitting on the rock, a little further away from the edge this time. However, this caused the sleeve of John’s coat to brush up against Sherlock’s.

John didn’t move, hoping not to bring attention to it.

There was a surreal sense to what just happened, not necessarily in a bad way, but John had yet to be playful like that with Sherlock. Perhaps it was vaguely inappropriate given the overall seriousness of what they had been talking about, but clearly neither of them seemed to mind.

It was worth it seeing, and hearing, Sherlock laugh with his entire body. A part of John had the passing thought that nothing could ever surpass the beauty of witnessing that.

Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

Chapter 14

A Meeting Of Hearts II

It seemed the more time that passed, the awkward feeling of the tension surrounding them lessened. There was still the heavy presence of all that happened looming, but overall it definitely felt more comfortable than before.

It was a nice feeling, being that content with someone – let alone a practical stranger in many respects.

John sighed and breathed in deeply; the contrast of the cool, snow air, and warmth flooding his body a welcome tonic to the emotions whirring around his heart and mind.

It was when, again, Sherlock finished a cigarette and reached for another one (Christ, how is that man not shaking? Must have something to do with his Enchanter physiology, they’re not immune to the effects of nicotine, but are more resilient in general) that John said something.

“Do you seriously intend on smoking the entire pack?” John eyed the offending pack disdainfully.

“Yes.” Sherlock lit it up with the lighter and inhaled with a grateful sigh. “I have five years of smoking to catch up on, after all.”

John scowled and crossed his arms. “Where did you even get those? Mycroft said you stole them.” Even if he hadn’t told John, he knew there was no way anyone here would willingly give him cigarettes, or any unhealthy vice for that matter.

Sherlock nodded, looking far too pleased with himself. “From the pockets of a few distracted, unsuspecting Nurses and one security guard.”

John blinked. “Plural?”

Sherlock lifted three more packs of cigarettes from a pocket out of John’s immediate view.

Christ. John groaned.

When he replaced them, John was resting his head in his hands. He’s determined I’ll give him that.

How he managed to steal those, not once but several times, without getting caught (except obviously by Mycroft) John could not figure out.

He was impressed despite himself.

“How did you even manage that?” John lifted his head and looked at Sherlock, waving at the pocket containing the multiple cigarette packs.

“Distraction and Deductive reasoning. It wasn’t all that difficult.” Sherlock shrugged.

Of course not. John forced himself not to roll his eyes and straightened out of his hunched position.

John sighed. “Ok, I’ll bite. Tell me.”

“Staff are not allowed to smoke during their shift, even on designated breaks. No matter the supposedly superior knowledge of health, the medical profession has its own fair share of smokers. It was simply a matter of a conveniently well-timed exploration of the facility, considering I’d never been here before and have all but healed from my ordeal, no one questioned it. No one was willingly going to give me cigarettes, idiots, as if being told no has ever stopped me.” Sherlock snorted and paused to inhale and exhale some smoke. John could imagine Sherlock was probably an absolute horror as a child. “Dedicated cigarette smokers will always have yellow staining not just on their teeth, but on their fingertips and nails as well. I timed my “exploration” towards the end of a shift so I could spot those with the tell-tale tremors associated with going for too long without time to smoke. After that it was simply a matter of taking a staff outfit from an unsuspecting laundry cart, putting it on which would deter all but the most observant of individuals – like I said, they are idiots – long enough for me to sneak into the staff locker room, one of the benefits of having my unique set abilities is being impervious to most if not all Magick barriers, and locate the lockers of those I’d deduce were smokers. If I actually used Magick, that would’ve drawn attention to myself. Lucky for me I mastered lock picking years ago, and used a paperclip I found on the lobby desk to pick the locks. Easy.”

John shook his head, a laughing smile on his face despite himself. “So you stole all their cigarettes? Seriously?”

Sherlock looked at John; affronted.

“Of course not-” John wrinkled his brow in confusion, about to speak when Sherlock continued. “-I left behind half a pack each, I’m not cruel.”

John chortled. “How considerate of you.”

“I am capable on occasion.” Sherlock hummed with a nod.

John again shook his head, slowly, with barely restrained amusement. Bloody mad.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Sherlock glanced at John before resuming his gaze forward with a slight smile. “Ta.”

Still humble as ever – but of course the man knew John meant it more as compliment than anything else.

It bothered John surprisingly little that Sherlock essentially committed a crime. Maybe that said something about him, but honestly, John didn’t care if it did. The only thing that truly bothered him was Sherlock smoking period.

John breathed and took in the changing scenery. The slow moving snow gave everything an ethereal sensation, a group of bright red birds and rays of sun piercing through the dusky clouds only added to the feeling that the bubble that existed around them, right then, was a whole world unto itself.

John missed London, but this was beautiful.

John had to consciously stop himself from leaning across that last tiny bit of space between him and Sherlock and rest against his side.

“Hm?” John watched Sherlock curiously, and waited for him to clarify what he meant.

Sherlock’s mouth parted slightly, streams of smoke came out as he did so, but then he closed it again. He didn’t speak for a moment, and John continued to wait patiently. Sherlock inhaled and exhaled from the cigarette a few more times before he spoke again.

It was a complete divergence from the easy, almost confident nature of his humour barely minutes before.

Sherlock was a man of many contrasts it seemed.

It perhaps should’ve hit John immediately, but it took a few seconds to realize that Sherlock was referring to him.

Whatever the full breadth was of what Sherlock intended to express, John knew it was an important and vulnerable declaration on the man’s part, given the situation. John knew if he brought attention to that fact Sherlock would shut him down.

So John didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a risk and scooted the tiniest bit closer, finally resting his arm against the long line of Sherlock’s.

John was worried he’d misinterpreted, or overstepped somehow when Sherlock tensed for a moment, but his worries were soon banished when Sherlock relaxed into John’s side.

John’s mouth turned up in a small, yet happy smile.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

John’s smile disappeared and he looked up at Sherlock with a scowl. “How are you even well enough to go?”

Quite frankly, despite how much better Sherlock looked, he still seemed like he was barely three steps away from keeling over – and that’s not even taking into account the amount of cigarettes the idiot man had smoked.

“Technically, I’m not.” Sherlock breathed out deeply, not looking at John. “However, since my Magick has all but fully healed to the point where I don’t even need a restraint anymore, I could theoretically convalesce, physically and mentally, anywhere. I would rather do so in my home. I called in a favour and will have assistance in breaking out tomorrow evening.”

John looked at him doubtfully and crossed his arms. “Really? You’re going to break out?”

Sherlock sighed. “No. The truth is much less interesting, when I woke up Mycroft asked me what I wanted – I told him I wanted to go home. As much as I hate admitting it, having a brother with as much political clout as he has comes in handy on occasion. He agreed to my premature release from the Centre, on the condition that I receive daily in house treatment from some of his medical staff for the next several weeks – much to my annoyance.” Sherlock sounded enormously put out by this. “At least I’ll be suffering in home.”

John’s mouth twitched. “You’re not a hundred percent yet; they will be there to help you get better. That’s not a bad thing.”

While John couldn’t say he was happy about Sherlock leaving so soon, he was glad to hear he wouldn’t be leaving care altogether – something he still needed, whatever he may believe – and that he would be receiving it at home. After what Sherlock had been through, a familiar environment could only be a benefit.

Sherlock harrumphed. “They work for my brother.” He said, as if that was answer enough for his ire. John sighed. “In all likelihood they’ll be more a hindrance than help, maybe if I experiment with Hydrogen sulfide they’ll leave.”

John blinked. “You experiment with Hydrogen sulfide?”

Sherlock waved away his concern, as if he wasn’t experimenting with something that was extremely deadly.

“I am a trained chemist with decades of experience, John. I know what I’m doing. Besides, I’m not saying I’d actually do it, far too complicated.” Sherlock shrugged. “Probably just put some fiber glass in their shoes.” John eyed Sherlock sharply. As if feeling his stare, Sherlock turned and saw the unblinking way John was staring at him with disapproval. Sherlock squirmed and twisted his mouth unhappily. “Fine.” He sighed and looked away, breathing on his cigarette. “You’re no fun.”

John snorted. “Yeah, I’m no fun at all because I don’t like the idea of you experimenting with deadly gas because it smells bad or putting fiberglass in people shoes.” John crossed his arms.

He is completely ridiculous. Why am I attracted to him again?

“I’m glad we agree.” Sherlock side-glanced John with a teasing glint to his eye.

John exhaled an exasperated sigh.

Sherlock, goddamn smiled, a sight John found himself momentarily caught in.

Oh, that’s why.

“Apparently I’ll be able to leave in a few weeks myself.” John interjected, in an effort to control the wayward nature of his thoughts.

John was still processing that. It seemed too good to be true, but John wasn’t about to shoot that gift horse in the mouth. John still had very little idea about what he was going to do afterwards, both immediately and in the future, but John was filled with a sense of renewed hope that whatever happened, he would figure it out. And probably, hopefully, Sherlock would be a part of his life from that point on.

Sherlock hummed. “I thought as much.” A strong gust of wind blew around the halo of his dark, curly hair. Sherlock tapped the dead ash off the end of his cigarette and gazed at the ground for a moment as he inhaled warm smoke. “So, where are you headed once you leave this place?”

John wasn’t certain if the question coming from Sherlock was out of genuine curiosity, or a sense of reciprocity, mostly he sounded a tad awkward for some reason.

Regardless, John gave it honest thought. Might as well start.

He breathed in. “I don’t know, probably find another bachelor flat in London, stay there for a few months; I can’t afford to stay longer than that. Probably not even that long, my army pension isn’t exactly a lot of money. Maybe I’ll get a job, go from there.” John shrugged and didn’t look at Sherlock while he answered.

On the surface it was awfully mundane and not that impressive a plan, but it was what he had and John had no choice but to make the most of it. Without the limp and tremor impeding his way, he could feasibly try finding a job at a clinic -

“You’ll move in with me.” Sherlock declared.

- Huh?

John whipped around to face Sherlock. He phrased it like a statement; no asking first, the man was just sitting there, smoking, entirely unconcerned like what he said was assumed.

John felt a bit thrown. He shook his head and blinked quickly. “Sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, when I’m in deep thought on a case I have a habit of levitating off the ground – some people find it disconcerting, would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Sherlock looked at John quickly enough to give him a small, impish smile.

“Flatmates?” John knew he was parroting, but at that moment he was justifiably too taken aback to do much more.

“Yes. I have been informed Mrs. Hudson hasn’t let out 221b since the start of my coma, I know I have a room, and I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will be grateful for another tenant to inflict her tea and biscuits on. Financially speaking it would be easier for both of us, and you’ve seen the place, even at that time I noticed that you found it appealing – it’s not all that different in reality.” Sherlock paused and brought his cigarette in for another drag, but hesitated as a carefully veiled expression came over his face. Sherlock breathed in deeply, and settled his faintly trembling hand on his knee. He didn’t look at John. “But not only that, the nature of Coniuncti Sumus is a unique one and would require, in the long run, a certain degree of closeness…cohabitating is really the only viable choice.”

In spite of the confident way in which Sherlock simply declared John would be living with him, regardless of John not having said anything yet, the mention of their bond seemed to nip that confidence at its root and Sherlock became almost demure, uncertain of himself.

Clearly the subject made Sherlock uncomfortable, and while John could think of several reasons why – he didn’t know for sure.

Otherwise, John had to admit Sherlock was right. And just the thought of not wallowing in a dingy flat on his own, again, was fantastic – not to mention the fact that he would be living with Sherlock, which would no doubt drive him to madness sometimes but John sure as hell would never be bored.

Before John said anything on that though, since Sherlock brought it up, he was curious about something.

Sherlock had resumed smoking, but one of his feet had begun bouncing up and down and he still was very obviously not looking at John.

Since he wasn’t really sure exactly how Sherlock felt about the fact that they were Magickally bonded, John tried to approach his question as cautiously as possible.

“How did you…figure out-”

“If I had been in my right mind, I would’ve figured it out the moment you arrived in my Mind Palace. As it was, the picture didn’t coalesce until…” Sherlock coughed and gestured between himself and John. John felt a blush on his cheeks, but said nothing and merely nodded. Right, when we kissed – when I kissed you. “At which point I felt-” Sherlock’s eyes darted briefly towards John. “-your emotions in a way that would only be possible through such a bond.”

John inhaled sharply. …Shit. Sherlock had felt his emotions?

“Oh, erm, what do you mean-”

“I couldn’t tell what you were thinking, if that’s what you’re worried about. I only got a, very strong sense of your primary emotion at the time. Since I am not an empath, and we’re not otherwise bonded in any way that would affect how my Magick functions, it was the only conclusion I could come to. Mycroft confirmed it when I woke.”

“Ah, of course.” John fidgeted a bit on the spot; torn between asking Sherlock what emotion he felt from John, and not wanting to know at all.

John figured he could guess the general vein of what he’d been feeling anyway. If that was the case, then how Sherlock had reacted since was interesting – he didn’t seem disgusted or put off in any way, in fact John hadn’t really seen or felt anything negative at all coming from Sherlock.

What did that mean?

Sherlock broke the somewhat awkward silence before John could.

“Your skills as an Army Doctor would be useful as well-” The complete about face in the conversation had John reeling for a few seconds, but they were at a stalemate and since clearly neither of them knew what to say at that point, John was grateful for change. “-I could use an assistant to work with me on cases, and interact with the idiotic police force – Lestrade, whom you met, is the only one tolerable. Should you desire,” Sherlock once again hugged his middle as he fiddled with the lit cigarette in his hand. “Could be dangerous; a lot of injuries, violent deaths, no shortage of adrenaline, much like a battlefield I would imagine. More fulfilling than any clinic job you would get.” That time when Sherlock looked at John there was definite sparkle in his eyes as he watched John closely.

John raised an eyebrow and leaned back with crossed arms. “I’ve seen more than enough of my fair share of that to last a life time.”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t change. “Interested?”

John didn’t even hesitate.

“Oh god yes.” John didn’t just mean in regards to the rather bizarre “job” offer either.

Gathering by the way Sherlock’s face lit up, he knew it too – and was obviously more than pleased.

“Excellent.” Sherlock nodded at John with a satisfied grin and gazed forward.

Well, ok then.

It took a moment for what just happened to fully hit John, but when it did…John felt anticipation for what was to come in a way he hadn’t for a long time. John felt alive again.

He let out a sigh of such deep, happy relief that right afterwards he felt a gentle pressure in his side.

John’s confused brow wrinkle smoothed out when he saw that Sherlock was leaning more heavily against him. The man didn’t look any different otherwise.

John bit his lip to keep from smiling.

The silence that followed lasted for several minutes, both men content to be quiet, the only sounds being the twitter of birds, the snow-filled wind and deep breathing of the chilled duo who had no particular desire to move.

Eventually though, John honestly couldn’t think of anything more he had to say. And when he looked at Sherlock for the first time in several, quiet minutes, the man had returned to a more statuesque posture on the rock, no longer leaning quite so heavily against John; and his eyes had a faraway look to them that vaguely reminded John of how he saw Sherlock a couple of times inside the man’s head.

There was a slight frown to his brow, and John wondered what he was thinking about now.

When he didn’t say anything for another few minutes, John thought that maybe Sherlock was done talking for now.

He wasn’t leaving until tomorrow, plus John should probably check back in with the staff inside before it got too late. Already the sun’s light had gotten significantly dimmer compared to what it had been when John first came out here.

John thought about saying something to excuse himself, but didn’t feel particularly inclined to disturb him – not when there was something so entrancing about Sherlock’s face suffused with deep thought.

John pushed himself off the rock and stood; shaking some life back into his stiff, chilled legs.

He’d barely taken one step before a hand tugged firmly on Johns coat sleeve; pulling John back, rather ungracefully, onto the stone. Sherlock’s hand let go the minute John righted himself.

If Sherlock wanted him to stay, John didn’t understand why he couldn’t have just asked instead of nearly causing him to fall over by pulling on him.

John turned to glare at Sherlock.

“What the h-” John’s jaw shut with a snap when he saw him.

Sherlock had pulled his knees back up against his chest, one arm casually draped over them as the other fiddled with an unlit cigarette, dexterous fingers, indicative of a violinist’s, distractedly twirling the cylinder between his fingers.

He no longer seemed so far away in his thoughts, but all the lines in his face were accentuated by the deep creases between his eyebrows, sad twist to his mouth and glistening sheer to his eyes.

John noticed Sherlock’s other hand, that didn’t hold the cigarette, was gripping his other knee very tightly, mostly out of John’s line of sight.

In fact, Sherlock’s entire body was tense.

John turned more fully to face him, suddenly feeling concerned that something was wrong.

“Sherlock? What is it?” John clenched his hands to keep from reaching out, Sherlock practically screamed don’t touch me right now.

“You are…different, than him.” Sherlock’s words were barely audible, so quiet John almost didn’t hear them.

But hear them he did. Sherlock seemed confounded by his own words for some reason, but John could guess with near certainty who he was talking about.

Passed that though, John halted – not sure how to take the comparison Sherlock just made. Why? He sounds like…like he’s lost[b].

John remained silent, heart pounding in his chest.

“You are more emotionally intelligent than I John, and a Doctor, tell me,” Sherlock was staring outward to some distant beyond, he spoke louder – though not by much; soft melancholy filled his voice. “, what is the protocol if, allegorically speaking, a broken heart starts beating again?”

John couldn’t tell if the question was rhetorical or not, and if it wasn’t John was reluctant to think too much on what Sherlock could be implying, so for his own sanity he didn’t at that time.

Nevertheless, if John didn’t know the context of the question, he would’ve found it a strange question for Sherlock to ask. It still was, but Sherlock had had a broken heart before, he had to have been referring to himself.

John’s mouth parted, but he closed it again. Christ, how can I bloody answer that? And why is he asking me? I’m not [b]that emotionally intelligent.

He heard, and saw, Sherlock light yet another cigarette.

“Those things will kill you, you know.” John eyed the billowing smoke with distaste.

“I think I deserve a cigarette or two.”

John snorted and nodded at the growing pile of butts at his side.

“Only a few huh-”

“You’re avoiding the question.” Sherlock cut John off.

John sighed. Yeah, I am, because I have no idea how to answer it.

“I don’t know.” It was the truth, because what Sherlock asked…it was so subjective.

“John.” Sherlock looked at him them, his voice was stern – but the way he said John’s name was a barely concealed plea.

“It’s different for everyone Sherlock, I don’t know if I can-”

“Try.” The ‘please’ didn’t need to be spoken.

Sherlock turned away from John, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

John could hardly say no to that, he had to try, and hope he wouldn’t feck up in some way.

“I suppose I would decide if the potential reward was worth the risk of having my heart broken, again.” John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, refusing to look at Sherlock as he spoke, instead focusing on his clasped hands.

There was something new building there, and to John it felt dangerous in a way he couldn’t quite place. Why is Sherlock asking me this?

Beyond a considering hum, Sherlock was silent at John’s side for a moment.

“How does…one decide it’s worth?” Sherlock finally asked in earnest.

John sighed and casually clapped his hands together. “I think, that’s likewise different for everyone.”

“Have you ever been cursed with being in love, John?”

Christ. John clenched his eyes shut. Why did you have to ask me that?

John supposed, that for Sherlock, his love – unfulfilled, though not entirely unrequited – would’ve felt more like a curse than anything, given what happened and society at the time; which was, though better, still wasn’t perfect..

The image of Sherlock crying over Admon’s body flashed with pain in the forefront of John’s mind. “No.” John whispered. Not like that.

Another reason I am grossly unqualified to be having this conversation.

John had of course been in relationships before, and loved them, but…from his side; he didn’t really feel anything beyond infatuation, lust or deep friendship for his partners.

Heartbreak, to the degree Sherlock felt, was an experience John had yet to feel.

All John could hear at that moment was the pounding beat of his heart in his ears, and more so than ever he was suddenly very much aware of how close Sherlock was beside him.

John gulped. Another image, this time of the kiss Sherlock and he shared on the cliff, inundated his body, shadows of the sensation he felt then – more powerful than anything he’d ever felt before, was sharp electricity to John’s system.

And he knew then, for sure, where this – this thing between him and Sherlock was inevitably going to lead. John wasn’t there, but to use a metaphor, the train had already pulled away from the station on a one-way track with one destination.

Perhaps John would get to experience heartbreak for himself in the not too far distant future after all.

“Not yet.” John murmured to himself on a cracked exhale.

John hadn’t really meant to say that out loud.

He really, really didn’t.

Shit.

When John realized he did his pulse spiked in something akin to panic and his hands clenched together.

Maybe Sherlock hadn’t heard, and if he did, maybe he wouldn’t suspect I was thinking of-

Master of deduction idiot, of course he could read between the lines, it wasn’t like you were trying very hard to disguise it.

John clenched his hands into tight fists atop his thighs and, trying very, very hard to remain calm – even with his insides screaming - John pushed himself up to sitting.

Sherlock didn’t move, his eyes were stuck on where John had just been.

Bugger goddamnit. Should I just…go?

Again, this shouldn’t feel more terrifying than entering a bloody warzone for Christ’s sake!

John opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

This was going to make living together enormously awkward, if Sherlock even still wanted-

“I don’t know if I could go through it again.”

The abruptness of Sherlock’s words, and the way he uttered them, had John still entirely.

Sherlock was distancing himself with how he phrased it; but there was a barely controlled shakiness to his breathing and faint tremble in his hands, and shadows of pain over his face that betrayed him.

Sherlock looked at John with watery eyes, mouth parted. The man blinked and shook himself angrily, tightening the lines of his mouth; looking away from John completely.

That time, John read between the lines.

‘I don’t think I can go through it again.’

John inhaled sharply, pulse racing.

“Sherlock-”

“I can’t. Not again.” Sherlock was muttering angrily to himself, all pretense of distance gone. The cigarette fell from Sherlock’s shaky fingers and singed with a final puff of smoke onto the white, undisturbed snow.

John pushed away his own blundering feelings for the moment.

He couldn’t turn his gaze away from the visage of Sherlock, torn, in pain, fighting with himself, trying so hard to control himself. At that moment he reminded John all too painfully of the broken-hearted Sherlock he saw before in those memories.

Only this time, John sensed the reason for this was less straightforward than it appeared.

Sherlock looked like he’d walked into a trap without having noticed, and it was too late to turn back.

It hurt.

“You don’t have to.” John tried reassuring him. “You do have a choice.”

He wanted to reach out, hold Sherlock, comfort him in some way, but John was torn about what would be welcome, especially then.

John forced himself to remain still – it was exceptionally difficult.

Sherlock snorted a bitter laugh. “Do I?” He became eerily motionless then. His only movement was the fingers of his hand, which he’d place between him and John, clenching and unclenching – like he wasn’t the only one trying to control himself.

John felt a pang in his heart.

Oh Sherlock…

He considered Sherlock’s response, and closed his parted mouth with a sigh.

John allowed himself to scoot a little closer to Sherlock, he flattened out his hand and slid it towards Sherlock’s own on the stone between them, but John stopped himself from touching him just in time.

Sherlock frowned and turned to look, his gaze became glued to the sight of their hands; fingertips nearly touching.

John couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“You can choose what you do.” John finally said, inadvertently using his Captain voice; steady, no trace of doubt. He patted the stone firmly between them.

It was true.

John didn’t choose to feel this way about Sherlock, but what he did – that John had control over.

Whatever the end result, ignoring how it might affect himself, John knew this was an important distinction John needed Sherlock to see, for both their sake.

A part of John was still reeling and in shock by what all this implied; that Sherlock somehow, miraculously, felt something – whatever it was – towards John that surpassed friendship. John doubted Sherlock would be reacting this strongly, let alone would’ve brought up the subject in the first place, if he didn’t.

“You…may have a point.” Sherlock conceded with a nod, his voice quiet, and tone thoughtful.

John had no doubt Sherlock could hide his feelings quite well, if he so chose, and maybe he was – but at that moment, John thought Sherlock seemed less distressed than before. It was still there, but to John, Sherlock now seemed to be considering something, distant in thought more than anything else.

Relief.

John closed his eyes briefly and exhaled.

“Of course I do.” John found himself saying with an almost Sherlock-like tone of voice, in effort to deflate some of the tension that was honestly starting to make John feel nauseas with unease and the sheer amount of emotion roiling through him.

John saw Sherlock’s mouth twitch and something in him relaxed.

There was silence. Sherlock didn’t move, just continued to stare at their hands with an unreadable expression.

After a moment however, Sherlock did move; pulling his hand back and turning to look back out towards the garden.

It didn’t take long before John got the feeling that Sherlock had gone into a world of his own, and that John had been effectively shut out.

John curled his fingers inward and replaced them in his own lap.

John breathed in deeply, trying to calm his racing heart, and looked around at the surrounding area; more practical thoughts settling themselves in his head.

The snow was falling harder, daylight vastly shrinking.

And there was no sign of Sherlock talking any time soon.

John sighed. I should probably go.

He hoped they would be able to talk again soon, if not in depth than at least to…clear the air somewhat, ideally he wanted to hear Sherlock say something along the lines of ‘we’re ok’, but for now John clearly needed to exercise his patience. And besides, John could use a few moments to be alone and think too, after he dealt with the medical staff of course. Joy. John felt a lot more ok with that though, maybe it was because he genuinely believed now that come what may, things would turn out alright; broken heart or not. John would deal.

So John lifted himself up with a quiet groan, once again shaking out his stiff limbs, and pushed his hands deeply into the pockets of the Centre issued winter coat.

Yeah, it would be fine. John nodded to himself, and with a final, guilty, glance at Sherlock – still staring forward, hair billowing around his face – John sighed and began making his way out of the rock garden.

Once again, John barely got a few steps away before he was stopped.

“I think I need…time, to think, to be certain.”

John’s heart skipped a beat. Or two.

He ceased walking, but John stayed where he was (a few feet behind the rock) as he turned around to face Sherlock.

The man was still facing forward, back to John, but clearly he hadn’t been as unaware as John thought.

“Alright.” John breathed out.

When Sherlock didn’t say anything further, John was about to turn around and leave again, when he saw him – still not facing John – make a ‘come hither’ gesture with his hand.

What does he want?

John fortified himself and agreed to the request by returning to Sherlock. He stood beside him in front of the rock this time, it was had grown far too cold to sit. Not only that, John had no idea what Sherlock wanted to say, he needed the security of standing.

Sherlock was no longer gazing forward, but at John this time.

The look on his face reminded John of how Sherlock looked at him in his mind. And John was no closer to knowing exactly what it indicated.

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

Just…stared.

John tried to meet his gaze, but having those eyes so mysteriously fixated on him had John wanting to squirm.

He coughed, glanced around with forced casualness that had John feeling like an awkward teenager again, and clenched his hands within the pockets of his coat.

“What?” John finally asked, he didn’t mean it to sound at all harsh, but something in Sherlock’s expression was unsettling him.

It might’ve been the simple fact that John couldn’t tell what Sherlock was thinking or feeling.

Also it wasn’t fair having that beautiful face scrutinizing at him like that.

Christ, control yourself John! The man is in the middle of emotional crisis for goodness sake!

John was inspecting an utterly uninteresting dead leaf that had somehow blown itself close to his foot when he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock stand.

John whipped around to look at him in surprise. Sherlock was indeed standing; directly in front of him, that same unreadable expression stark on his face, except that time his eyes were shining with quiet intensity.

John shifted on his feet and raised an eyebrow. “What-”

John was struck speechless, eyes frozen open, when Sherlock reached out and grabbed his shoulders with both his hands.

He didn’t have time to say anything, not that he could’ve if he wanted to, before Sherlock was leaning down.

At first John thought he was going to kiss him, and he did. Just not on the lips.

John thought Sherlock was going to pull away when his lips released contact with John, inwardly John whimpered a tad pathetically.

It was a forehead kiss, it’s not like he bent you over backwards in a dip.

Thanks for that brain.

It was so much more than that; this was Sherlock willingly, openly sharing this with John, of his own accord. John half-wondered if this was Sherlock’s way of thanking him, letting him down easy, which John would’ve understand no matter how other parts of himself would feel about it.

However, Sherlock didn’t pull away. He rested his forehead against John’s and his entire body melted of tension. Sherlock released his breath in a sigh that coated John’s face.

Oh…

John shivered and involuntarily closed his eyes.

Beside him he heard a small crack, and his Magick tickled with awareness as John felt something rise and settle beside him and Sherlock – in the air.

John frowned and opened his eyes, reluctantly pulling his head away from Sherlock’s (who didn’t let go of John otherwise) and he looked off to his right.

John blinked in confusion for a moment.

Floating in the air, level with John’s eyes was a small stone. It was purple, it looked like the stone (amethyst?) John noticed earlier imbedded in the ground.

Odd.

Something had torn it from its place in the buried mosaic, pulled it up through the snow and levitated it several feet in the air.

…Sherlock?

He looked back at Sherlock, about to ask him if he did that and why – but John shut his mouth abruptly when Sherlock dropped one of his hands and, without physically, touching it, moved the small, smooth stone gently over to John with a wave of his hand.

Is he…giving it to me?

John blinked quickly, eyeing Sherlock and then the stone, waiting for some explanation. He was about to reach up and grab it, but before he could John watched with curiosity as a flap on the front of his coat, on the left side, opened and the stone dropped cleanly as though of its own accord. The flap then buttoned itself securely closed.

John looked at Sherlock, feeling a bit bewildered.

Sherlock dropped his other hand, looking a bit uncomfortable, and gestured nonchalantly towards the ground where the stone had come from.

John’s brow smoothed out, and he bit his lip to keep the smile there from blooming. “Yeah, I was. Ta.” John patted the small lump in the front of his coat.

Sherlock waved off the gratitude, but he was pointedly not looking at John but at some point beyond his shoulder.

If that wasn’t one of the sweetest, most bizarre out of the blue gestures John had ever seen he would eat his own shoe.

Sherlock could really be that adorable.

“You’ll be at 221b in a few weeks?” Sherlock asked with a definite questioning lilt. He looked vastly more uncertain than he had before, which had John wondering if the man thought John wouldn’t want to live with him after all that just happened. As though, because John didn’t get the fairy tale response a part of him wanted (not that he actually expected or wanted to, not like this, Sherlock was right – they needed time) John might not desire to share a flat.

John found that utterly inexplicable, and oddly reassuring – since John had been worrying about the same thing, albeit for different reasons.

Inevitably, John had no doubts when he responded. “I’ll be there.” He nodded firmly with a fixed smile.

This time, he didn’t hold back the gesture he wanted to make. John reached out and patted Sherlock on the shoulder, perhaps lingering a bit before letting his hand fall.

There was still something vaguely melancholy in Sherlock’s face, but the pleased smile he gave John was genuine.

“Thank-you, John.”

The full meaning in those words was vibrant and heavy enough for even John to notice, Sherlock wasn’t thanking him just for that moment –

- but for everything.

John’s smile faded into something a little more serious, the weight of everything not so much looming anymore, but an accepted companion.

“No thanks needed.”

Sherlock shook his head, but didn’t say anything as he showed John a small, startlingly tender smile.

“You are a surprising man, John Watson.” Sherlock professed before turning around and resuming his sitting position on the rock, but continued looking at John.

You too. John didn’t respond outwardly, but gathering from the small nod of acknowledgment, Sherlock caught the unspoken words just the same.

Still smiling softly, John walked forward; reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder once.

Sherlock breathed in deeply.

“He would’ve liked you.”

John didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was.

John smiled sadly. “I’m sure I would’ve liked him.” No doubt.

Sherlock didn’t respond other than gracing John with one last, shining look before once again, staring forward towards the snow covered scenery.

Re: Secret Santa Fics 2016 - Read them here

John closes Magickal minds with a gentle thud and eyes the shining stone with a fond smile.

The amethyst stone that Sherlock had given to him all those months ago, has remained a fixture on the mantle in 221b from the moment John moved in, three weeks after that day in the rock garden.

It had been a surreal experience, seeing 221b in person, without warped mirages and a floating violin, but when he saw it – he was immediately in love.

He felt at home. John had to restrain himself from laughing when he walked into the living for the first time, suitcases in hand, and saw Sherlock looking like he hadn’t slept in days and furiously searching through a pile of papers on the desk between the two main windows.

The place was a mess.

At the time John wasn’t sure if Sherlock forgot the exact time John was arriving, or if the man was that disorganized – John has since discovered, through living with the man, that no matter how disorganized everything appeared to him, there was order to the chaos that only Sherlock seemed to understand. The first time John tried dusting, he flipped out and John was subject to a lecture on the importance of dust patterns and knowledge they can give.

John still found that moment very amusing when he thought about.

Not as amusing as the moment Sherlock looked up from his pile of case notes, saw John standing there (in Sherlock’s defense, John had arrived an hour earlier than he thought he would) and blinked at him like he couldn’t believe John was really standing there.

It was the first time they had seen each other since the day Sherlock left the Centre, although they had been in contact via phone, mostly texting.

The funny part happened after their first hellos.

Tension bled from Sherlock the moment John stepped into the flat (John himself was relieved and happy beyond words to not only be in a place that felt like a home, but that it was with Sherlock, the man John had since fallen in love with) and Sherlock gave him a visibly delighted smile – made all the more endearing by the complete disordered nature of his appearance; hair wild and askew, robe half-hanging off one shoulder, shirtless and wearing a ratty pair of pyjama trousers.

It was when John put his suitcases down and gazed over the disordered room that Sherlock seemed to jump like he’d remembered something, and Sherlock panicked.

Well, panicked was perhaps a bit strong, but the way Sherlock’s eyes widened and suddenly whirled around the room took John by surprise, and he had been about to ask what happened – when he realized what Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock was tidying, or at least he was trying to. He picked up pillows from the floor, threw them onto chairs and seemed fixated on straightening the items on the mantle, fixing a pile of letters there with a dagger that seemed to come out of nowhere, all the while pushing paper and books out of the way with his feet.

It didn’t really help all that much, but it was, in short, bloody adorable. A thought John kept to himself.

John could only hold his breath of laughter in for so long.

The way Sherlock whirled with tornado like force to face him, and stared at him with narrowed eyes and an indignant expression in the face of John’s mirth, made John bite his lip to keep from laughing anymore.

He told Sherlock not to worry about it at the moment. Sherlock had huffed and seemed to stomp away into the kitchen, pulling out one of the wooden chairs and sitting down; immediately drawn to an open notebook and laptop on the surface.

Clearly Sherlock didn’t appreciate having his efforts laughed at.

But it really was hilarious, and sweet in a way.

Living with Sherlock isn’t easy, at times it is far more difficult than even John can anticipate, more than once John has had to walk away, take a stroll outside and get some air so he wouldn’t say something he’d regret. A lot of it came down to the fact that both Sherlock and John are relentlessly stubborn about their point of views, clashing is inevitable.

In spite of that, it has been the most fulfilling and satisfying fourteen months of John’s life.

Assisting in Detective casework with Sherlock is incredible, and not just because seeing the man work his Magick – both figuratively and literally – is always a sight to behold, but John genuinely enjoys it.

The first time it became apparent exactly how useful the combined power of their Magick could be, was when they were chasing a thief through London side streets who had the annoying, yet objectively useful, ability to run impossibly fast.

There was no way Sherlock and John were going to catch up to him conventionally. John didn’t have to ask what Sherlock intended when the man stopped and turned to face John with urgency.

John reached out and grasped Sherlock’s shoulders at the same moment he closed his eyes and jolted.

It wasn’t the first time John had seen Sherlock’s ability to project himself, but it was the first time John assisted. Due to the suspect’s speed, he had gained a significant amount of distance on them, past Sherlock’s distance to project.

John Augmented his power to give him an extra boost, and hopefully give him the extra distance he needed. While Sherlock wasn’t able to physically interact with the suspect, what he ended up doing was effectively herd him back towards them. Projecting like Sherlock is able to do isn’t exactly common, and when the man appeared out of thin air in front of the suspect it expectedly frightened him and he ran in the opposite direction. What followed was a series of much the same appearances, that eventually led to the man running directly down the alley Sherlock and John were hiding in; under the arch of a shadowed doorway. John had released Sherlock, and Sherlock inhaled sharply as he reoriented himself.

At that point it was a matter of Sherlock handing John a pair of handcuffs (John found out later he’d swiped them from Scotland Yard last time they were there) that worked much like Magickal wrist restraints, and John jumping out at the exact moment the subject ran in front of their hiding spot.

It was a fun evening.

It is often difficult in a different way of course, one time Sherlock was kidnapped and locked in a room with no doors, and Magickal barriers even Sherlock couldn’t break, and slowly filling with water. The only reason he didn’t die was that they, Lestrade, Mycroft and John, found him in time and John’s bond with Sherlock, plus his own Magick, allowed him to break the barriers in concurrence with Sherlock on the other side; both men focused simultaneously and in a flash of light the barriers shattered before their eyes. Once that was out of the way, John warned Sherlock to step to the left, and he fired a bullet from his gun while simultaneously increasing its power and velocity, when it hit the metal a huge whole was blasted clean through it; causing the water within to poor out onto the cement floor. After that, getting Sherlock out was relatively easy.

No matter that they risked their lives every day doing what they do, that was the first time John was shaken at how close he’d come to losing Sherlock that day. John forced Sherlock to bed, since the man refused to get checked out at the A&E, and poured himself a tumbler of scotch and sat in his chair, staring at the empty fireplace for hours.

That was five months after John moved in. And it was the moment he realized he had fallen, and landed hard.

That truth always became especially apparent when Sherlock played the violin, John discovered quickly that Sherlock was a genius in many ways. He held John spellbound with the beauty those fingers produced upon the string instrument.

It was only when Sherlock scratched away horribly at the strings in frustration in the middle of the night, when some people were actually sleeping, that John was less than pleased.

Suffice to say, life was – is a constant, strange, mad adventure.

The first time John saw Sherlock levitating; John had come home from the shoppes with several bags of groceries and nearly ran into Sherlock levitating cross legged, in the middle of the living room, eyes closed and his hands rested together in front his chin. John was surprisingly – to Sherlock - unfazed, and merely edged around the floating man and proceeded to put the groceries away.

John and Sherlock mesh and work together brilliantly. They give each other support and another person to talk to, not only that John can say with 100% certainty they are the others best-friends.

John has even grown close to Greg, the latter calls them pub buddies; Sherlock twisted his nose with some distaste the first time he heard Greg use that term. And while John could never say he was close with Mycroft, he’d grown to respect him – up to a point, Sherlock is right about one thing in regards to Mycroft, his brother is very nosy and often situates himself into their lives without prior warning.

And Mrs. Hudson was a wonderful, excited energy that greeted John the first time he entered 221. It was as clear then as it is now that she loves Sherlock dearly, and dotes on him. The few times John was away, visiting old friends or his sister, he knew Sherlock wouldn’t starve himself to death (his eating habits, or lack thereof, are a constant source of bickering between them) as Mrs. Hudson insisted on feeding him with tea and biscuits, sometimes sandwiches, which Sherlock loves even if the man would never openly admit to it. Not just him though, John too.

She is honestly the best landlady John has ever had, and a saint for putting up with them and Sherlock’s mad antics.

When John had a conversation with her that revealed her colourful past, which ended with the story of how she met Sherlock, she said how she will always be grateful to him for making sure her abusive husband couldn’t ever hurt her, or anyone else, every again.

John loved her even more after that, and, if possible, Sherlock.

Over all, John is happy.

And even though their relationship hasn’t grown beyond that, John has continued to respect Sherlock’s rock garden entreaty of ‘needing time’, and since the man hasn’t yet brought it up again since that day, John assumes he isn’t ready to say anything. Maybe he never will be. There is nothing John can do about that, nor would he even if he could.

It kills John, honestly, a little each day to see this man, and be this close to him but have to restrain himself from reaching and kissing him; on the top of Sherlock’s head when he’s bent over his microscope in the kitchen, John on his way to making tea, or when Sherlock falls asleep on the sofa after two days without sleep, completely dead to the word, and all John wants to do is ruffle his hair and kiss his cheek.

John never truly realized how much of a sappy romantic he was, until thoughts like those began popping in his head more and more frequently.

Even though, over time, the two of them have of course grown closer, Sherlock more and more consistently comfortable and relaxed in John’s presence, taking John’s advice and words to heart in a way he doesn’t do with anyone else, John has noticed that Sherlock is still often wary of physical contact with John. Or rather, when even they touch, a shoulder, an arm, Sherlock is obviously content for a moment before a veil falls over his face and he pointedly avoids John for several hours.

John hasn’t talked to Sherlock about it, and each time that happened he has left the man to his own devices. The one time John tried asking him; Sherlock changed the subject before John could barely get a word in.

At one point John had the thought that it wasn’t John himself Sherlock was wary of, but of his own reactions.

It is very, very difficult not being privy to exactly what is going on in Sherlock’s head – when John can see, and feel, that there are moments when Sherlock is deep in thought in such a way that he shuts out the world around him, not quite masking his expression, a battle of emotions evident in the lines of his face.

One effect of their bond that grew over time is that on occasion when one of them is feeling an emotion particularly strongly, the other can feel it.

And John can feel that Sherlock is torn, emotionally.

Sherlock is a contradiction of complicated, predictable and utterly unpredictable. Honestly, it is one of the things that most intrigues and frustrates John about him. The point is, John could guess what Sherlock seems to be increasingly torn about – but in all likelihood he would be wrong.

And in truth, John didn’t want to build up hope that Sherlock might feel the same way about him, or even push his own feelings onto Sherlock if they’re unwanted.

They may be able to feel when the other feels a strong emotion, but it is never specific and unless there is obvious context more often than not John can’t tell what the emotion is being triggered by.

So John is hesitant to guess, and has long decided that when or if Sherlock wants to talk, he will talk.

John may have been privy to much of the man’s emotional network when inside his head, but in many ways Sherlock remains a mystery that John doubts he will ever fully know. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.

In the meantime, John will have to contend himself with loving Sherlock from afar.

And that’s ok. In the end, if nothing more comes of their relationship, John will be happy having Sherlock as his best-friend, because that is privilege enough.

Even with the painful aspects of it, John has never felt more content in his life.

Life is pretty fantastic.

John sighs, smile fixed on his face.

It is winter, again, and outside 221b’s windows snow is falling in a gentle cascade. They haven’t had a case for a few days, which Sherlock has been bouncing off walls about, and if he wasn’t near stomping around the flat like a petulant child, he was in silent visage in his black leather chair by the fireplace.

Sherlock was more withdrawn than usual, and earlier today he went out to St. Bart’s because the coroner – an old friend of his named Billy, an interesting young witch – had some organs in from a man who had been found dead in a swamp, surprisingly well preserved.

John made a note to thank Billy when he saw him next; a Sherlock bored and in need of distraction was often volatile. That particular tendency did get worse after Sherlock quit smoking, and restricted himself to as needed nicotine patches. John considers a slightly grumpier Sherlock a worthwhile consequence to the man not puffing himself with endless nicotine, at times Sherlock disagrees.

Even if it came in the form of a rotting corpse, John is grateful that Sherlock finally had something to do, no matter how long it lasted.

John had no particular desire to go, so he remained and began working on writing up their latest case ‘The Geek Interpreter’. As much as John loves the bugger, he is grateful for the few hours of peace he’s had.

It has been several hours, and other than a few texts to comment on the state of the corpse – ‘a vestigial tail, why did he never have it removed, interesting - SH’ or ‘digestive system remarkably well preserved - SH’, followed immediately by, ‘I’m hungry - SH’ and the last, sent two hours ago, ‘Have you ever seen the stomach contents of a man preserved in peat? – SH’, was sent to John along with a picture.

John lost his appetite immediately after.

Overall, it’s a typical day in 221b.

John had received a text from Billy half an hour ago, letting him know that Sherlock had left.

Sherlock hadn’t informed him of any prior plans, and John does find it odd that he heard Sherlock had left from Billy.

When John texted him to ask if he was coming home, Sherlock had replied with a single, terse ‘yes – SH’. Not unusual in of itself, but Sherlock has been more withdrawn lately and John is growing a bit concerned.

The journey from St. Barts to Baker Street is not long, Sherlock should’ve been back by now.

John looks at the clock – ‘7:00pm’ – and makes note of the time, deciding he’ll text Sherlock again in ten minutes if he hasn’t arrived yet.

John wasn’t overly worried, if Sherlock were in any actual physical danger John would feel it due to Coniuncti Sumus.

In the meantime, John put aside the Doyle book on the table beside his chair, and picked up his laptop lying beside it.

Sherlock may poke fun, repeatedly, at John’s blog; but as John constantly reminded him, they got a lot of business from private clients because of it.

John had taken a break from writing up ‘The Geek Interpreter’ to rest his eyes and read, with that done he opens his laptop; new blog entry up and ready, halfway done.

John resumes typing, if a bit awkwardly with the laptop ironically on his lap – but there is no way John is moving from the fire. The electric heat had broken down again, and at the moment the fire is the only thing heating the entire flat, but with the help of a bit of Magick on John’s part, it was flooding every room with comforting heat.

‘…Sherlock got me to do some research (which involved me going into a comic shop... oh, the things I saw...) and it turned out that, as expected, sales of KRATIDES had shot through the roof –

Bang!

John rapidly stops typing at the sound of the door downstairs opening and closing loudly, probably due to the strong wind outside.

Who could be –

But John’s fleeting confusion is gone when he hears familiar, if marginally slower, footsteps ascending the stairs.

Sherlock. John exhales a bit in relief and recommences writing for the moment, wrapping up the paragraph he’s working on.

Sherlock seems to stop for a moment outside the closed, living room door. John pauses again and looks up towards it with a slight frown.

“Sherlock? You alright?” John calls out.

The door opens.

Sherlock strides in, Belstaff coat and thick woolen silver scarf (courtesy of his mother, John met his parents when they visited unexpectedly last month), aloof like he hadn’t just been loitering outside his own living room door.

“Of course.” Sherlock says as he unwraps the scarf from around his neck and throws both it and the coat onto the sofa; exposing the clean cut suit and white shirt beneath.

John blinks quickly. Something’s off.

Sherlock has yet to look in John’s direction, and the man is currently running on some high energy from one spot in the flat to another, awkwardly straightening loose books, paper and various items they have collected as mementos from various cases; a locket, a bejewelled dagger, a skull (not from a victim, thank God, but from a museum – it was gifted to Sherlock from an anthropologist when he and John solved a series of break ins which resulted in stolen irreplaceable items of history), among others.

John watches him carefully, until Sherlock ends up in front of the fireplace and begins – bloody hell – straightening unopened mail.

Without taking his eyes away, John closes his laptop and puts it on the table beside his chair.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” If it was a case, or some experiment that had him this disordered, he usually liked using John as a sounding board for his frustration or excitement.

John doesn’t think that’s what this is, not only does his current behaviour contradict it, the primary emotion John is feeling from Sherlock right now is anxiety.

Sherlock jolts, almost like he’d forgotten John is right there, and takes his hands away from the mantle. He doesn’t answer John, but he does sit himself heavily in his chair; his right foot tapping against the ground, fingers drumming random patterns on the armrests.

Still, Sherlock pointedly avoids John’s gaze, instead he stares into the glowing flames of the fire.

His face is heavily masked and unreadable in a way John has long since associated with Sherlock hiding something.

If John couldn’t feel the man’s obvious and extremely heightened anxiety practically filling the room, he might regard the odd way Sherlock was acting as some unexplainable quirk of his – of which there are many.

John leans forward. “Talk to me.” John implores softly. He clasps his hands, elbows resting on his knees with his hands dangling between them.

Sherlock’s brow furrows in response to John’s words, and the jumpy energy he was previously exuding deflates entirely. Sherlock exhales deeply and rests a palm against his face before running slightly shaky fingers through his hair and ruffling his locks angrily.

“Sherlock, seriously-”

“Go on a date with me.”

John is speechless. “I-”

“Last year I know you expressed…romantic sentiment towards me, and while I realize enough time has passed for feelings such as those to change or disappear altogether, if you are still amenable I would like to take you out to Angelo’s, for a proper date.” Sherlock’s panicky drumming with his fingers on chair arms increases and he finally turns away from the burning fire and looks John square in the eye with unblinking determination.

John gulps and tries to calm the frantic racing of his heart.

Am I sleeping? Is this even real? I was certainly not expecting that.

John feels his eyes begin to water. Shit, am I seriously going to cry? That’s just embarrassing.

Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Veteran of Afghanistan, crying over the man he’s in love with asking him out on a date.

His old army buddies would probably have a good laugh if they could see him now.

John rests his face in his hands in effort to cover his shining eyes and get some goddamn control over himself.

“I know I am not an ideal romantic partner and that I have no prior relationship experience to speak of-” Sherlock is speaking even faster now, with perhaps a tinge of alarm, maybe because of John’s reaction, in his voice. “-feelings are barely tolerable to me on a good day and I am likely to fail in making you happy, or keeping you sexually satisfied-” Jesus Christ. “-But over the past several months, you have become a great value in my life, more so than I could’ve anticipated, not just in the Work but for me personally, and I realize now that despite years of having no wish to feel anything like it again, I know what I feel for you is…beyond the boundaries of friendship, that it has been steadily growing for quite some time and I would like to-”

“You love me?” John drops his hands and looks up at Sherlock in shock.

Sherlock’s mouth shuts abruptly.

John curses himself inwardly. The man didn’t actually say it idiot, and now you’ve put him on the spot –

“Yes.” Sherlock utters almost too quietly for John to hear, in a way that sounds like he is putting the final nail in his own coffin.

John’s heart stops and he just…stares at Sherlock, heart somewhere in the vicinity of his Elf shoe slippers.

(A gag gift from Greg this Christmas, which John has no intention of telling him he actually wears because they are that bloody comfortable)

There is no hesitation in Sherlock’s eyes, but there is, very obviously, fear.

The poor man looks barely a stone’s throw away from running back out the door he just came in from.

Oh.

Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction, has no idea how I’m going to react. And he’s actually afraid.

Sherlock often has a major blind spot when it comes to observing love in others directed towards his own self, but with their bond John had assumed the man would know how John feels.

Maybe he does, and is just scared that John won’t want to be in a relationship regardless –

Oh!

Admon. Of course.

In the memories, Admon had all but openly admitted he reciprocated Sherlock’s feelings, at least to a degree – even though at the time it would’ve been worlds more dangerous to be in a relationship with a man, and John isn’t married either, Sherlock is afraid that John will love him, but choose not to be in a relationship with him anyway.

Even though knowing his love wasn’t completely unrequited, that still would’ve stung Sherlock deep.

Yeah, I should probably get a hold of myself and say something before Sherlock panics.

John breathes deeply, if Sherlock can be brave and lay his heart bare – so can you, and moves as far forward as possible without falling off the chair.

John fixes Sherlock with an unblinking stare, allowing every single emotion Sherlock makes him feel to show on his face.

The movement catches Sherlock’s attention and he watches John warily, clearly trying very hard to mask his own emotions in effort to remain in control.

John bites his lip.

“A few things, first; I love you too, for all that you are, you silly wonderful man and if you think I won’t want to be with you when it is killing me to not jump you with your ridiculously bouncy hair and beautiful face right here right now-” Sherlock freezes and gapes at John, deep red blush high on his cheeks. “-then you need to work on your observation skills.” John inhales. “Second, you will have to get the milk at least twice a month and stop using it up in your mould experiments, I don’t exactly enjoy bits of mould floating in my tea-” John barely manages to hold in his laughter at the taken aback expression on Sherlock’s face that quickly turns to affronted. He snorts and looks away from John, eyes closing gently, but there is a very obvious smile building in the corners of his mouth. “And third-” John hesitates for a moment. This causes Sherlock to open his eyes and look at John curiously. “-forget the second, because I know there’s no way you’ll remember.”

Sherlock laughs.

A happy, full-bodied, laugh.

John smiles widely. There.

Sherlock wipes an errant tear from his eyes, and the way he looks at John…John is so overwhelmed he can’t even begin to describe how he’s feeling, and this time there is nothing that can stop him from crying tears of joy.

“John?” Sherlock stops laughing and looks at John with concern.

Bugger. John presses the balls of his hands into his eyes. “I’m fine, fine, I’m fine.” Very convincing. Shut up.

Oh god, this is actually happening.

John has never felt happier in his life.

He hears a thud and suddenly there are long fingered hands gently pulling John’s away; exposing his tear-track stained face.

Sherlock is kneeling in front of him, holding John’s hands securely between his own.

It makes John feel better that he isn’t the only one with watery eyes. His heart pangs, because the last time John saw Sherlock in tears with this amount of raw emotion was when John experienced the memory of Admon dying.

There are so many reasons why Sherlock approaching John like this, admitting his feelings, is such a big thing for him to have done – his past has not exactly been easy. Neither of theirs has, albeit in different ways.

John never really expected they would end up here, and now they have.

And Sherlock loves him.

John couldn’t take his eyes away from Sherlock now even if he wanted to.

They have never been this close before, both of them exposed.

John’s mouth parts when Sherlock slowly reaches up with a trembling hand, and holds John’s face in the cradle of his palm; wiping away tears with his thumb.

John clenches his eyes shut to keep more tears from spilling, and turns his face into Sherlock’s hand, breathing in shakily.

Oh god oh god oh god…

John can feel both of their Magicks coming to life along their skin. Through his eyelids John can see a faint glow.

“John.”

John opens his eyes at Sherlock’s plea. Sure enough, wherever their bare skin is touching, Sherlock’s hand on his face, hands clasped on John’s thigh, there is a faint, golden glow emanating.

Sherlock is watching him with such intensity; a contrast to the tears marking his own face, John feels weak in the knees.

“I want you to know-” Sherlock breathes in, body trembling, and John grasps Sherlock’s hand on his thigh tightly. “-that you are in no way a replacement-”

“I know-”

“Please,” Sherlock stops John with a thumb firmly pressed across his lips. “Let me say this, I’m not – it’s not in my nature to express my emotions, and I need you know how much you mean to me so you don’t stop believing or doubt how important you are to me even when I don’t-”

“I know. Sherlock, it’s ok.” Sherlock was near hyperventilating, John had to say something. “Really, baby steps, you’re important to me too, alright?”

They have time now, oh so much time.

Sherlock nods, and leans forward to rest his forehead against John’s.

“So…is that a yes?” Sherlock mumbles with a small smile.

John snorts and rolls his eyes. “Of course it is, you idiot.”

“Good.”

They smile silently at each other for a moment.

Then, Sherlock turns his face and presses his lips to John’s.

It is their first, real, kiss.

Oh…god.

John groans and slides his arms around Sherlock’s neck, squeezing him tightly; one hand lightly pulling at Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock moans and pulls John to the edge of the chair, their torsos fully aligned, arms wrapping around Johns waist.

John feels a bit lightheaded, and has to release his lips from Sherlock’s so he doesn’t pass out. Now that would be embarrassing, or maybe Sherlock would take it as a compliment.

Neither man pull away, keeping their hold on each other tight with foreheads pressed together.

“Wow.” John huffs with a smile, breathing heavily.

Sherlock hums deeply with a nod, and pecks John on the lips with a contented smile.

He pulls away then, but only to rest his face against John’s neck and increase his hold on John by grasping fistfuls of John’s oatmeal jumper.

“I love you.” Sherlock breathes out against John’s skin.

This is my life now. John exhales shakily with a blissful smile, damn you tears, and grasps Sherlock’s back equally as tight.

John turns his head and kisses the lobe of Sherlock’s ear.

“I love you too.”

Sherlock whimpers, and cries silently against John. The glow surrounding them strengthens with the depth of emotion being expressed; a very physical manifestation of the sheer joy of the moment.

And John knows, that this, right here…

This is the happiest he has ever felt in his life.

John has never been more ready, or excited, to live the rest of it.

Magick, really is, real.

~ oh when I'm cold, coldthere's a light that you give me when I'm in shadowthere's a feeling you give me, an everglow…